PROMISES KEPT
by dreiber
Summary: The War has ended for Captain Dietrich and the Rat Patrol but they are called upon for one last mission that will take them through war torn Europe.  Rated K  for some salty language.
1. Chapter 1

**_PROMISES KEPT_**

_H_ans Dietrich stood alone, watching the copper-colored leaves fall from the aged oak trees. Coaxed by a gentle breeze, they silently floated from the branches to the ground. Like the fall foliage, Dietrich, too, felt powerless to stop the march of time or the changing of the seasons. After two-and-a-half years of waging war in the deserts of North Africa the relative peace and tranquillity of his life now seemed surreal. The glaring African sun had been replaced by the softer rays of the Northern Hemisphere; the memory of the unmerciful heat cooled by a benevolent breeze; the sound of heavy machinery and gunfire supplanted by the call of the geese flying south for the winter. He stared at the sun setting in the western sky and felt as dormant as the dead foliage.

Standing near the stone banister that encircled the terrace of his country home, Dietrich gazed about the extensive grounds surrounding the estate. Many milestones of his life had taken place here. He had caught his first trout in the pond beyond the woods behind the house. He had learned to ice skate on that same pond, breaking his ankle in the process. He had kissed his wife for the first time in the gazebo, which now was missing many panes of glass and in desperate need of repair.

Leaning on his arms for support, his hands gripping the railing, he could feel the cool smoothness of the stone balustrade. Solid and sturdy, it was more decorative than functional - the only barrier between the house and a world he no longer recognized. A gust of wind mussed his hair and caught his open collar. The shirt, a little too large after too many years of army rations and captivity in a British POW camp, billowed slightly and he found himself shivering against the cold.

Running his hand across the cold marble, he tried to remember simpler days . . . the days before the war. He remembered Christmas time the best. He could recall his father closing the house on Wilhemstrasse in Berlin, then leading the motorcade of family and servants along the snow-covered streets of the city until they turned into country roads. He would bounce along in the back seat of the old Mercedes, wedged between his mother and younger sister, bored when the trip became too long but anxiously looking forward to the festivities that awaited him. It had been a more innocent time, and he wondered if that innocence ever could be recaptured.

He smiled in spite of himself, turned to gaze into the house, and propped himself against the railing. Thin curtains gracefully billowed in the breeze from the open French doors, as if playing hide-and-seek with last rays of sunlight. The fine tinkle of crystal drew Dietrich's attention to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling of the music room. Sadly, the sweet chime of the light fixture was the only melody that had been heard in the house for many years. There had been little reason for celebration in the past six

years. Yet the house had survived through all adversity, a testament to a lost age of prosperity and pride; a stoic reminder of a more civilized time.

The ancient home had been in his family for many more years than Hans had been alive. In many ways it was the focal point of his life. As a child, he had spent every holiday here with his family. Expansive, yet intimate, the family home had been the perfect setting for birthdays, baptisms, and weddings; the one ageless witness to a never-ending circle of life.

All things considered, Dietrich was fortunate and he knew it. Between the Russian invasion and the Allied air raids his home in Berlin had been pummeled into ruins, but not before his wife Ilsa had wisely chosen to take their child and leave the city. If it weren't for this aged estate, he and his family would be living in shelters along with the greater part of the German population. Hitler's "Aryan nation" now was nothing more than a melting pot of the wealthy and destitute, the clerics and criminals, all thrown together in desperate survival. He thanked God that, by some miracle, this home had escaped major damage or occupation.

Dietrich sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. The occupation by the Allies had brought stability, but their uneasy alliance with Russia underscored the tenuous balance of power with a new air of paranoia and fear. And the German people kept working in a feeble semblance of routine, eager to put politics and the war behind them, anxious to mourn their dead and renew their lives - only no one was certain how to proceed.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm, the familiar touch drawing him from his meditation. He thought his wife was as beautiful as the day she had married him. Her blonde hair fell in a wave to her shoulders and her delicate face reminded him of porcelain. He would not have been human if he did not smile when he was in her company.

"Hans, do you want a jacket?" Ilsa asked, sliding her hand under his arm. "It's becoming rather chilly."

He covered her hand with his and smiled at the use of his given name. After years of hearing "Hauptmann Dietrich," it had taken him a while to become accustomed to the simple "Hans." "I'm fine," he reassured her, then stared back into the house, his thoughts continuing to waver between past and present.

Ilsa decided not to press the issue. She had given him as much space as he needed since his return home, trying not to push him in any one direction, allowing him to find his bearings. But his transition from a Werhmacht captain into an ordinary citizen had not been an easy one. Severed from an army that no longer existed, he found himself with too much time on his hands and too much to think about. In-between intervals of readjustment, he became prone to long periods of silence and inexplicable restlessness. Often she would find him wandering about the grounds, with no particular purpose or objective - just the need to be moving.

"The Moenichs are coming over tonight," Ilsa started, trying to break his mood. "They're organizing homes that are willing to take in refugees."

"We have plenty of room," Hans offered quietly, suspecting his wife had already volunteered their home to host displaced families. In his absence, she had grown accustomed to making decisions without his assistance and, surprisingly, he was glad of it. It was easier to let someone else take control and, to his amazement, he had no trouble relinquishing it.

"They also want to meet you," she announced proudly, then added with feigned pomposity, "the 'Great War Hero.'"

Dietrich responded by abruptly freeing his arm from her grasp as he turned around to face the opposite direction.

Ilsa drew nearer to him and placed her hand on his back, feeling as if her attempt at humor had been ill-timed. "I'm sorry, dear." She lovingly caressed his back. "I was just trying to make you laugh." She had missed his laugh almost as much as she had missed his friendship and his love. "I'll ask them not to come if you would rather not. . ."

"No." He instantly regretted over-reacting to Ilsa's comment. "It's fine. Truly. It's fine," he repeated, as much as to reassure himself as his wife. "I'm just not feeling like much of a 'hero' these days."

The evening passed quickly. Dinner was meager but filling. Food rationing called for creativity, Ilsa claimed, as she continued to surprise her family with new ways to fix leftovers. Living in the country was a definite advantage. The family estate spread out over several hundred acres, most of which was farmed by local tenants. The farmers, who were generous by nature, had provided milk and vegetables during the worst of months following the occupation. Now that the German currency was essentially worthless, food was more important than money to a starving nation. Bartering had become a way of life. Desperate refugees traded what little they had for basic food staples. As milk and bread became more and more scarce, the farmers thrived. Dietrich and his family, in turn, gladly accepted whatever the farmers could offer in exchange for their lease payments.

Conversation at the dinner table floated above and around Hans like a desert sandstorm that had swept over him, leaving him momentarily disoriented, then passing as quickly as it had come. He ate little and spoke even less, still feeling like a pariah, unable to partake in even the most banal conversations.

He glanced at Gretchen furtively. She was small and delicate, much like her mother. Yet, he had been told, her temper could equal his. Although he had not experienced her anger firsthand, he did occasionally catch a glimpse of fire in her eyes. His daughter would soon celebrate her fifth birthday, but he was a virtual stranger to her.

Dietrich had missed Gretchen's first birthday by a few days when he suddenly was called to the Mediterranean on a reconnaissance mission for the then Lieutenant General Rommel. His knowledge of the indigenous population made him a valuable asset to Rommel's staff, and he spent most of the next year traveling between Berlin and Libya. His visits home became increasingly rare and limited by a tortuous schedule. He rarely saw his daughter for more than a few hours at a time; when he became stationed permanently at Tripoli, he never saw her again until he was released by the Allies and sent home.

He still could remember the first day he had held her in his arms upon returning home - the way she had squirmed in his embrace, crying out for her mother. It was ridiculous to think she would remember him, but he had held out hope there would be a natural bond between father and daughter. There had been very few men in her life, and no one she could call "Papa." When he finally relinquished the child to Ilsa, it felt worse than any defeat he had suffered at the hands of the enemy.

Clutching her spoon, Gretchen chased a pea around her plate until her mother's firm hand stopped her. "Are you finished eating?" Ilsa asked softly, leaning forward to meet the child's eyes on her level. Gretchen nodded uncertainly. "Then sit there quietly, like a little lady, until we are all finished," she instructed.

Gretchen plopped the spoon down with a defiant thud, and pouting, sat back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest. Again, Dietrich noticed the spark of flame and smiled in spite of himself.

Ilsa too noticed the reaction, so similar to her husband's, and looked up to gauge Hans' response. Their eyes met in a moment of shared amusement. Quickly regaining her motherly posture, Ilsa dabbed at her mouth to hide her smile behind the napkin.

"I think we're finished," Dietrich announced, as much as to please his daughter as to keep his wife and himself from breaking into laughter. Gretchen glanced at her father, then looked to her mother for approval.

"Go on, then." Ilsa helped the little girl down off the antique chair before retrieving the pot of coffee from the sideboard.

Following her across the room, Gretchen tugged at the hem of her mother's skirt. Bending down, Ilsa listened to her daughter whisper, "Will Papa read to me tonight?"

Ilsa thought her heart skipped a beat. For the past five months she had tried hard to bring father and child together, only to be met by steadfast resistance on Gretchen's part. This was the first time she had asked for her father. "Perhaps you should ask Papa," she whispered back.

Gretchen looked from her mother to the man she had been told was "Papa." A puzzled expression crossed her face, followed by uncertainty and then decision. Finally, she timidly approached her father. Hans pushed his chair away from the table, allowing Gretchen to lay her small hand on his knee. "Mama said I should ask you to read to me."

A lump formed in his throat as the tears welled in his eyes, and he could not find the words to respond. Momentarily closing his eyes, trying to get his emotions under control, he cupped his daughter's face in his hands. "Of course, I will," he finally responded, fumbling for the right words. "Certainly."

Gretchen's bright blue eyes stared back at him in bewilderment. She tentatively reached a finger up to trace a tear than had left a path on his face. "Why are you sad?" she asked innocently.

Another tear escaped down his face. Closing his eyes, he shook his head. "I'm not sad, darling." Taking her hand in his, he added, "You've just made me very happy."

A look of childish bewilderment crossed her face, then, convinced that she had done nothing wrong, Gretchen shrugged off her Papa's reaction as one more thing she did not understand about adults. Gently pulling away from him, she giggled and then skipped out of the dining room toward the stairs. "I'll get ready for bed." She paused and turned back again to look at her parents. "Will you read to me then?"

Gazing after her, Dietrich smiled and nodded in agreement. As Gretchen disappeared up the stairs, he glanced at his wife, then wordlessly stared at his dinner plate. Gretchen's words repeated again in his mind. He only noticed that Ilsa was standing beside him when she reached down to wrap her arm around his shoulders. She gently kissed his head, then smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

"Everything is going to be fine, Hans," she promised. For the first time in more than two years, she felt it was, indeed, true.

Dietrich finished the fairy tale and tucked the blanket around his daughter, who lay on her side, fast asleep. He was about to shut off the light when he glanced back to take one last look at his child. She looked like an angel, he thought - an angel he was only beginning to know. Standing in the doorway, he stiffened at the thought of the thousands of children who would never get to know their fathers. They would hear stories of how their fathers had given their lives for their country, for their patriotic convictions . . . and for a political ideology espoused by madmen. Sighing, he turned off the light and shut the door behind him.

Walking down the stairs to the sitting room, Dietrich glanced at his watch - 8:15. "What time were the Moenichs supposed to be here?" he asked, slipping on the sweater he kept draped over the back of his favorite chair. The nights were getting colder now, and the scarcity of wood and coal for fires required some pragmatism.

"Eight-thirty," Ilsa answered, busily rearranging pillows and sofa cushions. "Is Gretchen asleep?" she asked as an afterthought.

Dietrich lit a cigarette and shook the flame from the match. "Yes," he answered, laying the match in the ashtray. He released a stream of smoke and watched it dissipate. Smoking was a filthy habit he had picked up while he was in the service. In the desert, cigarettes had been easier to find than water, and in some cases more welcome. Water might renew one's strength, but the cigarettes calmed the nerves. Since he was no longer jumping at the sound of heavy artillery, he had made a tentative promise to quit. "I think she's heard that same story so many times she probably knows it by heart."

"I'm sure of it," Ilsa answered, smiling. She approvingly looked around the sitting room. The light on the desk gave off a warm, comforting glow. A few magazines were arranged gracefully on the coffee table. Even if they were months old, they presented the image of a cozy, stable household. Now, with her family intact, Ilsa felt the old house was beginning to feel like a home.

Dietrich watched his wife, attempting to conceal his amusement. "This isn't an inspection, you know," he said playfully. "They're coming here for our approval, dear."

Ilsa gave him a wry smile. "I know, I know," she answered. "I just want to make a good impression."

Dietrich shrugged his eyebrows and sighed, watching his wife nervously move around the room, making last minute adjustments to the curtains, doilies, and whatever else she could find to straighten. They both looked up at the knock on the front door.

"I'll get it," Ilsa offered, moving to greet their guests. Extinguishing the cigarette, Dietrich followed her into the entrance hall.

"Ilsa!" Edward Moenich exclaimed as he wrapped her in a bear hug that she returned as best she could, throwing her arms around the rotund older man.

Frau Moenich watched with a warm smile on her face and waited for her turn. The two women gave each other an affectionate embrace of understanding based on a shared history of struggle and strength. Taking the older woman's hands in hers, Ilsa ushered the Moenichs into the house.

Dietrich kept his distance, making a quick appraisal of his wife's friends. Edward Moenich was a short, stout man; Hans guessed him to be in his early fifties. He was balding; the few wisps of remaining hair still meticulously combed in place were the last vestiges of what at one time had been a full head of copper-colored hair. He had a pale complexion and blue eyes that sparkled behind wire rim glasses which were mended with tape.

His wife had a gentle face, creased with lines that were the result of both laughter and tears. She was almost as large as her husband, but meticulously dressed in a woolen coat and stout shoes. The worn piece of fur fashionably draped around her neck that matched the small pillbox hat set back on her head completed the perfect picture of disenfranchised wealth. No doubt they had come from "old money," which now was worthless in a bankrupt economy.

_More victims of the war_, Dietrich thought despondently.

"Please, come in." Ilsa stepped aside allowing the couple to enter. She took Hans by the arm and urged him forward. "This is my husband, Hans." She was positively beaming. "Darling, this is Edward Moenich and his wife, Lucie."

"Herr Moenich." Dietrich offered his hand first to Edward, who heartily returned his greeting. "Frau Moenich." Dietrich gently grasped only the fingers of the woman's hand in a formal handshake normally reserved for a noblewoman. Touched by his deferential treatment, Frau Moenich returned the gesture with a small curtsey. The two became immediate friends.

"We have heard so much about you, Herr Hauptmann-"

Dietrich interrupted Moenich. "Please, call me Hans." He noticed the look of surprise that passed between the couple, but decided not to comment. There was no army. He was no longer a captain; that was a part of his life he had been forced to put behind him. More than anything, he wanted to avoid altogether the subject of his military experience.

Ilsa recognized Hans' uneasiness and immediately steered the conversation in another direction. He had said little to her about the war, and she was sure he would not be comfortable discussing it with total strangers. He would deal with it on his own terms, as he did with most things; tonight was not the time to test his patience. "Why don't we all sit down," she suggested, "and I'll bring some coffee."

"We've known Ilsa for quite some time," Edward Moenich stated, accepting the steaming cup from his hostess. He sparingly stirred a few drops of milk into his cup. Milk was high on the list of rationed products and the German people had learned to live with less.

"Oh, yes!" Frau Moenich agreed, as she gazed fondly toward Ilsa who was seated on a chair opposite the coffee table. "She was so helpful in our efforts to collect medical supplies for our troops. We always knew we could depend on her for help."

Ilsa shyly returned the older woman's smile. She had worked hard, but so had many others who were able to help. "I did what I could," she answered modestly.

The mention of medical supplies forced Dietrich's suppressed memories to surface once again. Hundreds of young men maimed and dismembered. The smell of burned flesh, blood saturating the khaki uniforms turning them a muddy brown. The cry of soldiers holding onto life, the vacant look in the faces of the dead. It was the one nightmare he could not shake.

Ilsa noticed her husband's attention slipping away. She reached out to take his hand in hers, bringing him back to the present. "Isn't that right, dear?" she asked, drawing him into the conversation.

Dietrich gazed at her in momentary bewilderment. "Hmm? What?" he stammered. "I'm sorry, I. . ." His voice trailed off apologetically.

"I said it's time for us help each other," Ilsa anxiously repeated.

The atmosphere suddenly became uncomfortable; Dietrich immediately composed himself. Reaching for another cigarette, he noticed his hand shaking as he struck the match. Closing his eyes, he took a long drag, exhaled the smoke and rejoined the discussion. "Which is why we're here."

He flicked the ash in the crystal ashtray. Sitting back in his chair, elegantly crossing his legs, he decided to take control of the evening. "What can you tell us about the family who will be staying with us?" It was always best to get to the root of the problem, and get things done quickly.

"They're just a small family," Lucia Moenich began, as she rummaged through her purse, looking for the pertinent information. She triumphantly withdrew a few folded pages, yellowed and worn around the edges. Carefully unfolding them, she read the family's statistics aloud. "The mother, Clara Muller, is thirty-nine and widowed. Her husband Ernst was lost on the Russian front. She has a daughter, seven years old, named Rosa. Her son Martin is sixteen. They lost their house in an Allied raid over Meinz." She looked hopefully from Ilsa to Dietrich, then continued. "They just need a place to stay until her sister can come from Switzerland to retrieve them. I don't think they'll be here longer than a month." Frau Moenich finished by stuffing the paper back into her purse, and snapping it shut.

"It would be pleasant for Gretchen to have a playmate," Ilsa said, as if debating the idea with herself.

"They can stay in the guest rooms in the west wing," Dietrich offered. _Ilsa's right_, he thought, it was his duty now to help his fellow countrymen as best he could.

"I'll have to open those rooms. . ." Ilsa was already making plans to provide for their guests' comfort.

"There is one small problem." Ilsa and Hans both looked up apprehensively.

"The young man - Martin," Edward continued, "He's been in a bit of trouble." Suspecting the Dietrichs might change their minds, he quickly added, "Nothing serious, just a few misdemeanors." The elder man fumbled for a handkerchief in his breast pocket and nervously wiped the perspiration from his brow.

Dietrich studied him for a moment, then glanced at his equally nervous wife. He had an odd feeling that this had been arranged in advance - what the Americans would call a "set-up." Leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, he cradled the cigarette in his hands. If he had learned anything from the war, it was the art of intimidation. Dietrich looked Herr Moenich squarely in the eye. "Just a few 'misdemeanors?'" He repeated Moenich's word slowly and calmly for the best effect. A quick smile played on his lips. "Herr Moenich," he started, then felt Ilsa's restraining hand on his arm. He focused on the nervous gentleman seated across the table from him. "I am not running a rehabilitation center here."

Frau Moenich joined in, hoping to support her husband's petition. "He's been in a few 'altercations.'" It was the only word she could find to present the boy's problems in the best light. "To be honest," she said, realizing the only way out of this would be a complete confession, "that is one reason we were hoping you would take him in." She continued hurriedly, her comments directed at Hans, "You were a captain in the army - surely you dealt with many young men with such problems. We were hoping you might be able to help him . . . to put him on the right track."

Dietrich shook his head in disbelief, and sat back in his chair. He did not know what the boy had done to warrant the attention of the authorities and he wasn't willing to risk his family's safety to house a petty criminal. "Absolutely not," he pronounced with determined finality.

"Hans. . ." Ilsa still was committed to offering whatever assistance they could to the displaced family. "It won't be for long, and-"

"Ilsa!" Dietrich wasn't accustomed to debating what he considered a closed subject. "You don't know what sort of mischief the boy has been into. I'm not willing to risk your safety, or Gretchen's."

"And," Ilsa continued, completely ignoring his argument, "perhaps he could benefit from a man's influence in his life." Determined to state her case, she added calmly, "Hans, I've lived two-and-a-half years without you for protection. I've seen Russian tanks rolling through the streets of Berlin, and Allied bombs exploding almost in my back yard. I think I can handle a sixteen-year-old juvenile delinquent."

Ilsa's logic prevented Hans from voicing any further protest. Only beginning to understand the war his wife had fought at home, he paused long enough to marvel at her strength. Still, he remained convinced this whole arrangement was not a good idea. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and calmly replied, "This is not the same thing."

Ilsa returned his stare, and considered her response. "No, it's not," she agreed at last. "These people are German."

_She's right, of course_, Dietrich thought. This family needed their help, and perhaps all the boy needed was a strong guiding hand. He looked at the anxious faces staring back at him from the couch where the Moenichs sat waiting for his decision. Then, noticing the determined set of Ilsa's jaw, he realized he was outnumbered. He wanted to keep fighting, but hard won battle expertise told him to retreat.

"Very well," he announced at last. "When will they arrive?"

A small gasp of elation escaped Frau Moenich. Smiling broadly, her husband reached over and clasped her hand in his.

"I'm not promising anything," he warned. "They will be gone at the first sign of trouble."

"There will be no trouble, Herr Haupt- Hans," Edward pledged as he adjusted his glasses on his nose. "I promise."

Dietrich sighed in exasperation. These people were so kind-hearted they couldn't see past the plight of their adopted refugees. The boy was going to be trouble, and Dietrich would not give Moenich two Reichsmarks for his promise.

The remainder of the evening was spent making last-minute preparations, as the Mullers would be arriving in two days. The Dietrichs' household rations would be increased to include three more people. Everything would be taken care of, Lucie Moenich promised, and "it was so very kind of them" to do this.

When they finally wished their guests a goodnight it had begun to rain. As Dietrich walked them out to their car, holding an umbrella over Frau Moenich's tattered fur, he wondered how he had been so badly out-maneuvered. He looked back to the house; seeing Ilsa standing in the doorway, he shook his head in defeat and smiled.

The rain continued through the night. It was cold and wet, the gray clouds casting a gloom over the entire house. Ilsa watched quietly as her husband slept. She knew he had been uncomfortable all night, his body reacting painfully to the wet weather. The telltale signs of injury and abuse - the scars on his right wrist, a blemish on his shoulder where a bullet had found its mark, a mysterious deformation where a broken rib had not healed properly - were all pieces of the puzzle Hans had become. When asked, he had refused to share the history behind the wounds, and now she wasn't sure she wanted to know. She ran her fingers through his hair and to her dismay, found another scar at his right temple.

Dietrich stirred at Ilsa's touch, and winced when he rolled onto his back. His hand habitually reached to hold his aching side. Vaguely aware of someone watching him, his eyes fluttered open and he was pleasantly surprised to find his wife sitting next to him on the bed.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a sleepy rasp.

"Good morning," she answered. Squeezing his hand, she bent over to kiss him gently. "How are you feeling?"

Dietrich inhaled deeply and stretched his arms over his head. "Much better, now." A devilish smile danced across his face, then disappeared when a twinge of pain caught him unaware and his body tensed. Catching his breath, he closed his eyes and waited for it to pass. "Must be the weather," he commented reassuringly.

The concern in Ilsa's eyes made him uncomfortable. She worried about him constantly; he hated being the source her distress. It would take time, he had told her - time to forget, time to remember, and time to come to terms with broken promises. Time was one thing he had an abundance of these days. He decided to change the subject before she started fussing over him. "What's in your hand?" he asked, glancing at the envelope she held in her lap.

"A telegram came for you." She flipped the envelope over in her hand. "I wasn't sure I should tell you about it."

"Why not?" He gently caught her arm in his hand, her satin dressing gown soft and smooth to the touch. She clearly was upset. "What could be so horrible?" he asked jokingly, unwilling to let her see his apprehension. Telegrams were not a welcome sight, even now that the war was over.

"It's from Allied Headquarters in Berlin."

Dietrich sat up stiffly, pulling an extra pillow behind his back. "What?" he asked, leaning against the headboard and reaching for the letter still in his wife's hand.

Ilsa reluctantly handed it over to him. She waited while his eyes scanned the message within.

"It's from a 'Major Thomas Armstrong,'" he murmured. _Request meeting with you. Stop. Thursday November 18 10:30 a.m. Stop. Please advise if you can not attend. Stop._

He repeated the man's name, rank and military affiliation, then looked at his wife in bewilderment. "What do they want with me?" He could see the same question reflected in his wife's face.

Ilsa rose from the edge of the bed and nervously began to pace the room. "Hans," she began, then hesitated. Turning towards him, she studied his face. Worry creased his forehead; the kind of worry, she suspected, that could be born of guilt. Had he taken part in the war crimes that other German leaders had been accused of? Could he be capable of such things? Did the Allies suspect him of wrong-doings? The unbidden accusations raced through her mind as her heart raced to deny them.

"There are many things you and I never have discussed," she stated, trying not to sound accusatory. She could see Hans waiting, wary of the direction this conversation was taking. "Were there things . . . during the war?"

"Ilsa!" Dietrich was dumbfounded. He knew exactly what she was asking. Throwing off the down comforter, he rose and walked toward her, standing at the foot of the bed. Holding her at arm's length, he studied her eyes. "Certainly you don't believe I would take part in any of those senseless crimes."

When she didn't answer, he asked again, "Do you?" The thought that his wife might judge him guilty of such acts was abhorrent, incomprehensible. "Ilsa?" he pleaded quietly for some sort of response.

Ilsa always could read his emotions in his dark eyes - they would smolder when he was angry, narrow with suspicion, or sparkle with mischief when he was happy. As she stared at them now, they registered nothing but hurt and alarm. Immediately ashamed of her suspicions, she nervously fingered the lapels of his pajamas. "I'm sorry," she apologized, unable to meet his gaze. "It's just that you never talk about what happened to you. I've seen the scars; I know you were injured. And now this cable . . . I couldn't help but think. . ." Her voice trailed off into a whisper.

He took her chin in his hand, tenderly raised her head, and saw the tears in her eyes. "It's all right." Pulling her close, he cradled her head against his shoulder and held her tightly. During the years they had spent apart, Ilsa's belief in him and in what he was fighting for had been the inspiration that persuaded him to carry on, even in the most dire circumstances. The thought of losing her faith terrified him.

After a long moment, Hans pulled her away to gaze into her face. Holding both of her hands, he promised, "I will tell you everything . . . one day. But it still is too real for me. I just need to put some distance between me and. . ." He searched for the right word, ". . . everything. Can you understand that?"

Ilsa nodded. She would have to have patience; she knew he was worth the wait. "What are you going to do about the telegram?" she asked, wiping an errant tear from her face. "Will you go?"

Dietrich returned to the night stand where he had left the cable and read it again. "November eighteenth at 10:30 a.m. What is the date today?" he asked, his attention still focused on the note in his hands.

"The seventeenth."

"They want me to be there tomorrow!" he exclaimed, wondering why he had been given such short notice. He read the date at the top of the cable aloud. "10 November 1945." The telegram had been sent a week ago, yet it had arrived only today. "I suppose cables get low priority these days." He looked up at Ilsa who stood across the room from him.

"Is there enough petrol in the car to drive to the city and back?" he asked, his voice tinged with a note of umbrage at what amounted to a summons.

Ilsa crossed the room and stood near him. Laying a hand on his shoulder she asked, "You are going then?"

Dietrich looked from the paper to Ilsa. "Yes, I suppose I should." He had discovered long ago it was better to face the enemy straight on; it was easier to plan a course of action when you knew what to expect.

The remainder of the day was spent preparing for the Muellers' arrival. Ilsa remembered the last time these rooms had been opened. The occasion had been Johanna's wedding. She could remember Hans' sister looking resplendent in her mother's gown, slightly yellow from age, but nevertheless a beautiful mixture of lace and satin. The house had been filled with spring flowers in shades of white, yellow, and pink. Ilsa imagined she still could detect the aroma as she climbed the stairs that lead into the west wing.

Johanna and Heinrich had been married the same year the German troops had marched into Poland. The house was filled with family and friends attending the wedding. Laughter and music floated in and out of every room; the celebration went on for days. Ilsa wondered how the festivities would have been different if they had known what was to come over the ensuing six years.

The empty halls now echoed with nothing but the sound of Ilsa's footsteps. A layer of fine dust covered the once clean carpets; the hardwood floors that had sparkled with a warm luster were powdered gray. Cobwebs danced in the breeze of Ilsa's skirt as she passed them by.

Walking beside her mother, Gretchen sneezed when the particles of dust irritated her nose. "_Gesundheit_," her mother said, opening the door to the first bedroom on the left. Gretchen preceded her into the room and sneezed once more. "Again?" Ilsa asked in mock surprise.

Taking one of the clean hand towels Gretchen had carried from the laundry, she wiped her daughter's nose.

The girl rubbed her nose with the palm of her hand. "My nose tickles," she giggled.

"It's from the dust," her mother explained, giving Gretchen's little nose a playful tweak. Tucking the towel in her apron pocket, she placed her hands on her hips and looked around the dismal room. "This is going to be more work than I thought," she muttered absently. "Well, perhaps the first thing we need to do is get some light in here."

Ilsa pulled the heavy drapes aside and frowned at the windows; very little light would pass through these panes of glass. "A great deal of work," she amended.

"Mama," Gretchen said, running her hand over the footboard of the double bed, "why are these people coming here?" She held her palm to her face to study the streak of dirt left there.

"Because they don't have a home," Ilsa answered, trying to avoid the inevitable.

"Why?"

Ilsa turned her back to the window to look at her daughter. Gretchen's face was pensive and solemn; there would be no simple answer this time. At times like these Ilsa wished her little girl had not inherited her father's curiosity. She previously had tackled her questions concerning why they could not go back to live in Berlin. However, it wasn't until she took Gretchen to the empty lot where their house had stood that the child had understood fully what had happened. How could she now explain the Allied bombs that had routed the rest of their country, showing very little discrimination in their chosen targets? How could she tell her about the thousands of civilians who had lost their lives in these bombings? How could she make Gretchen realize how lucky they were to have escaped the greater part of the devastation?

"Did the airplanes hurt their house?" Gretchen quietly asked before her mother could answer.

On more than one occasion, Ilsa had been awestruck by her five-year-old's perception. Now she was humbled by the childlike simplicity of her insight. "Yes," she answered, hoping to forestall any further explanations.

"Did Papa fly in the planes?"

"No, Papa drove tanks," Hans answered.

Startled, mother and daughter spun around to find Dietrich leaning against the door frame, a wistful smile crossing his face.

With one hand on her hip and her head tilted at a puzzled angle, Gretchen asked, "What's a tank?"

Dietrich wanted to sweep up his five-year-old up in his arms, but hesitated, uncertain about what sort of reception he would receive. Instead, he sat on the corner of the bed and took her hands in his. "It's like a big automobile." _With guns and explosives_, the voice in his mind reminded him. "It has many large wheels and-"

Gretchen suddenly pulled her hands out of her father's grasp. Obviously frightened, she ran to hide behind her mother. "Tanks hurt houses, too," she whimpered, clutching at her mother's dress, causing Ilsa to stumble backwards.

"Gretchen!" Catching her footing, Ilsa looked over her shoulder and immediately offered a comforting hand. She looked back at Hans, surprise and disbelief reflected in her face.

Dietrich replayed their conversation in his mind, trying to understand what had caused such an alarming reaction from his daughter. _Tanks_, he thought, his brow furrowed in concentration. _Of course!_

He mentally reprimanded himself for being so thoughtless. _Russian tanks!_ Gretchen had seen them in Berlin amid the rubble and bombed-out buildings. Now she connected that devastation with her father. Dietrich felt as if he were living one of his worst nightmares.

Mercifully, Ilsa had also made the same connection. "Gretchen," she said softly, bending down and holding her daughter gently by her arms. She looked the frightened child in the eye. "Those were Russian tanks," she tried to explain. "Papa did not drive the tanks you saw in the city."

Ilsa could not be sure Gretchen would be able to make the distinction between Russian and any other type of artillery. She wasn't sure a distinction could be made.

Gretchen did not understand what "Russian" was, but seemed consoled that her father had not taken part in the destruction she had witnessed in Berlin. She cautiously glanced at Dietrich and then back to her mother.

Ilsa smiled at her to dispel her confusion. "Why don't you run downstairs and bring Mama the mop from the kitchen."

Not entirely convinced that the man who sat on the edge of the bed could be trusted, Gretchen cut a wide path away from her father and flew out of the door to the hallway and down the stairs.

Ilsa watched Gretchen leave and then turned her attention to Hans. She was uncertain whether to be angry or sympathetic. No one could have predicted Gretchen's realization, and she knew Hans only was trying to find a common ground with his daughter. Still, she - as any mother would - wanted to protect her daughter from the violence that hung like a specter over their country. A specter that continued to haunt her family.

Dietrich sat in silence, resting his head in his hands, unable and unwilling to meet Ilsa's eyes. Whatever tenuous relationship he had built with his daughter had been destroyed by his thoughtlessness. What had possessed him to discuss such things with his child?

Ilsa sat on the bed next to her husband and, putting her arm around him, gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"She thinks I'm a murderer," Dietrich stated flatly.

"She's a child - she doesn't understand."

Dietrich looked around the room. Still reeling from his daughter's rejection, he was unable to focus on anything, unable to keep his feeling of failure from coloring his perspective. "Perhaps she understands better than we do." Hans finally met Ilsa's gaze. "What have I done?"

Without losing eye contact, Ilsa answered. "You told the truth."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

The rain slowed during the night and disappeared by the next morning, leaving a damp chill hanging in the air. Following a fitful night of little sleep, Hans was already awake as the sun rose outside his window. He quietly got out of bed, attempting not to wake Ilsa, and closed the drapes. In a matter of minutes he had washed and shaved. He groped in the wardrobe for his suit. Ilsa stirred when the door creaked open, but turned onto her side and fell back to sleep. The ability to dress and maneuver in the dark was one of the more useful skills he had acquired in North Africa.

During the campaign in the desert, he had often risen while it was still dark outside. Groomed and dressed before the rest of his men, he would frequently take the few minutes of peace to think. At times he would plan the day's strategy, review field reports, or take care of administrative details. But more often, he simply took pleasure in seeing the sunrise on the desert horizon - the bright orange, red, and yellow ball of fire, auguring another scorching day on the sandy terrain.

Knotting his tie, he draped his jacket over his arm and bent to kiss his wife good-bye.

Ilsa smiled and mumbled, "You haven't had breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," Dietrich replied as he smoothed her hair from her face.

Ilsa caught his hand in hers and looked into his face. She could see he was eager to get started, and felt it probably was better not to tempt his nervous stomach with food. "Be careful, darling," she said, her face suddenly solemn and grim.

Dietrich kissed her head, and tenderly drew the covers up to cover her arms. "I will be," he promised, then added, "I'll look in on Gretchen before I leave."

"The Muellers will be here this afternoon," Ilsa mumbled groggily just as Dietrich was about to leave.

Hans stopped in the doorway. "I'll be here." Quietly he pulled the door closed behind him.

Dietrich softly walked down the hall to the suite of rooms the family traditionally had used as a nursery. The rooms had been painted and re-wallpapered since he was a boy, but were now faded after so many years of neglect. Hans intended to redecorate as soon as the materials were available, but was resigned to the fact that it wouldn't be soon. _At least it's clean_, he thought, as he passed through the room that opened into Gretchen's bedroom. What few toys his daughter still owned were stacked neatly on the low shelves that lined the walls, along with her favorite book of fairy tales. The rooms were thickly carpeted, which would, at least, help ward off the cold.

His hand on the doorknob to Gretchen's room, Dietrich hesitated before pushing it open. He prayed that Gretchen was still asleep. He did not think he could face the accusation in her eyes again. She had pointedly avoided him ever since the scene in the guest room the day before. The thought of her clinging to her mother as if he were a total stranger haunted him. It was if the previous five months he had spent trying to rebuild his relationship with his daughter had never happened. Dietrich opened the door a few inches and peeked in to find Gretchen asleep on her side. Curled into a little ball, her cheeks were as pink as her pajamas, her golden curls framing her features. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and vowed to win back her trust.

Donning his hat and coat, Hans walked the few yards from the house to the garage. The fallen leaves, half-frozen from the cold and rain, crunched under his feet, and his breath hung heavily in the air. He pulled on his leather gloves to protect his hands from the bitter chill. It had been some time since he had needed such heavy clothing, he mused, enjoying the brisk weather. The desert had a beauty all its own but, he felt, there was nothing to compare with autumn in the country. This always had been his favorite time of year; he felt newly invigorated as he raised the garage door and climbed into the old Mercedes.

Dietrich pumped the fuel pedal a few times, depressed the clutch, and turned the ignition. The engine made a grinding sound, refusing to turn over as it bitterly protested the cold weather. He tried again, this time holding his foot down on the gas pedal. The motor started reluctantly as the pistons, impatiently waiting for the oil to warm up and lubricate the engine block, chattered noisily. Sitting in the cold car, he considered the day before him.

There had been nothing in the cable to suggest that he was in any trouble. The major had politely "requested" his attendance. No one was forcing him to go; another man might have ignored the invitation completely. But Dietrich possessed a sense of duty that constantly persuaded him to act as he had been trained all of his life to act - to do what was best for his men and his country - no matter the personal cost. He wondered dismally what price he now would be required to pay.

Berlin was some distance away, and the muddy roads served to make the trip even longer. Time passed slowly, affording him the time to think . . . and remember. There had been nothing left of his Panzer Division when the Afrika Korps had surrendered to the British Eighth Army in May of 1943. Many of his men had died in one senseless battle after another, and the rest were either sick or disillusioned and defeated. And he was tired - tired of the vacant stares on the faces of the dead, tired of writing letters of condolence to families back home, tired of scavenging for supplies and munitions, tired of measuring every drop of precious water, and tired of fighting for a political dogma to which he had never subscribed. Dietrich had spent the next two years in an British POW camp. He had not bothered even to attempt an escape, although as an officer, escape should have been his first priority. He knew the war was over and he could see no reason to lead any more young men to premature deaths. Hauptmann Hans Dietrich had secretly rejoiced when he heard of Hitler's death.

He had come to the African desert to fight for his country, for his home and family, and for a heritage that had been all but eradicated with the stroke of a pen at Versailles. Politics was for politicians. Hans Dietrich was a soldier - a Wehrmacht officer. He had fought an honorable war, he had borne the responsibility for the lives of hundreds of men, he had treated friend and enemy alike with fairness and accountability.

But in the end, it wasn't enough. Hitler's zealous quest for power splintered the General Staff as each commander came to question the Führer's sanity. Those committed to the Nazi party remained loyal; others plotted Hitler's death. Machinations at all levels of power fractured the government and unfortunately, it was Hans' fellow countrymen who suffered the consequences of incompetent leaders.

Now Hans was left to live with defeat and failure . . . left to defend his conduct to a hostile world full of indignation and resentment . . . left to explain acts of barbarity that he did not understand himself. His only defense was that he had conducted himself with virtue and dignity; he had remained true to his own personal code of honor, and had demanded nothing less of those he commanded. If he was to be judged guilty by association, in his heart he knew the truth.

A distant train whistle drew Dietrich from his reverie. The sound was a welcome surprise - an indication that the rails had been repaired after the damage done by the Russians so the trains could run again. Trains meant food and medical supplies for a population in need of the most basic amenities. The larger cities had suffered the most from the rationing mandates. Long queues of people formed for the meager portions allotted to families desperate for whatever handouts were available. This desperation meant opportunities for the more industrious criminals; reports of theft, murder, and rape increased exponentially with the decrease of essential goods needed for survival. Now with the approaching winter, the sound of the familiar whistle was good news, indeed.

Buoyed by what he considered to be an indication of recovery, Dietrich turned on the radio and tuned to the BBC. The broadcasts were in English, but the music was universal. The sound of big band swing, which had been banned by the Nazis, blared from his speaker. He turned up the volume as much to celebrate Germany's freedom from its repressive past as to make his own declaration of hope for the future.

Approaching Berlin, Dietrich cautiously crossed the railroad intersection, then swung the car onto the main road to the city. He urged the Mercedes on a little faster at the sign that indicated only fifteen kilometers remained until he would reach his destination.

As he entered the city, Dietrich's spirits were felled by the realization of how much work still needed to be done before Berlin would regain its former splendor. The streets were pockmarked with holes left by ruptured gas and water lines. The rubble of scorched and burned-out buildings tumbled onto the sidewalks and into the gutters. Windows were boarded over or covered with cardboard to keep out the November chill. The worst of the destruction had been cleared away, and children played in what remained of the bombed-out structures.

Dietrich slowly edged his way through the main intersection, attempting to avoid another pothole, and parked along the street opposite Allied Headquarters. Sitting in his car, he watched the flow of people entering and leaving the building. Men and women in American, British, and Russian uniforms moved in intertwining circles of khaki, green, and blue. A few people in suits and overcoats broke the monotony of military regalia, and Dietrich found it impossible to discern their nationality or allegiance.

Already uncomfortable with the idea of facing additional Allied interrogation, Hans began to question whether keeping this appointment was the right decision. The Americans and the British had debriefed him before he had left Africa. His answers then had been short but honest; whatever military secrets he had been privy to were useless now. He had nothing else to offer but the truth.

And it was his commitment to the truth that had compelled him to answer the mysterious cable. If there was any information he could supply that would exonerate himself or those who had been in his command, it was his duty to cooperate with the Allies. After considerable internal debate, he got out of the car, side-stepped a bicyclist who was weaving his way through the debris, and crossed the street to stand in front of what was once the First Bank of Berlin. Standing with his hands in his pockets, he surveyed the old building. Designed in the neoclassical style of columns and porticos, it once had been a beautiful architectural masterpiece that boasted of Germany's prosperity and affluence. Now, most of the ground floor windows were boarded up; the west side of the building was scorched and crumbling from an explosion that had destroyed most of the neighboring structure. Dietrich closed his eyes and sighed deeply when he noticed the American and British flags draped outside the second-story windows.

Hans hesitantly climbed the steps that spanned the width of the facade and pushed his way through the heavy revolving door. He stopped just inside the entrance and looked about the imposing hall. Redecorated now to comply with military regulations, traces of the room's former elegance still could be seen. The intricately carved ceiling and crystal chandeliers, once clean and spotless, were now covered with a fine layer of soot; oak paneled walls that had glistened with wax and polish now appeared dull and lifeless. Bronze teller cages had turned dull-brown, and the marble counters were covered with files, folders, and boxes of all sizes and shapes.

Dietrich draped his overcoat over his left arm and removed his hat. As he straightened his double-breasted jacket, he waded through the crowd of Allied soldiers occupying the main floor. They were all speaking loudly and laughing as they jostled each other about; their voices echoed in the massive entrance hall, bouncing off the marble - a verbal assault on a building that could not defend itself. Above the din Dietrich could pick out fragments of conversation in English, French, and Russian, but nothing he could detect as German. He began to feel as defenseless as the old building.

He slowly made his way to what appeared to be a reception desk. A beleaguered American corporal directed traffic, answering phones and barking orders to messengers who scurried about laden with folders and boxes. Dietrich waited until the soldiers thinned out, then approached the desk. "I have an appointment to see Major Andrews," he stated quietly.

The corporal leaned back in his chair and pushed his rolled sleeves farther up his arms. He eyed Dietrich suspiciously; only a few Germans were invited to Allied Headquarters. It was the corporal's job to

make sure unwanted visitors got no farther than his post - and it would be entertaining to have some fun

with this one. Slowly, with calculated precision, he removed the cigar dangling from the side of his mouth and placed it in the ashtray to his right. "Sorry," he sneered, underlining his contempt, "I didn't hear you."

Dietrich recognized his mock apology as the veiled challenge it was meant to be. Angry and insulted, he wanted to reach over the desk and grab the man by his rumpled shirt collar. However, if he had learned anything in battle, it was not to over-react when outnumbered. Summoning his control, he repeated his earlier statement a bit more loudly. This time his softly accented English caught the ear of the soldiers milling about nearby and their eyes fastened on the stranger.

Dietrich ignored the suspicious stares. Sensing that the corporal now had an audience, he was determined not to become the focal point of this farce. Focusing his angry glare on his adversary, he defiantly leaned over the desk. Searching the man's uniform for some identification, Hans quietly but forcefully repeated his request. "Corporal Harris," he began. "I want to see Major Andrews." It was no longer a request, but a demand. "If you will not help me, you have my personal guarantee that you will not be sitting behind this desk tomorrow." It was an empty threat, but it garnered Dietrich a little terrain; he hoped Corporal Harris wasn't smart enough to call his bluff.

The German's response was unexpected and Harris hesitated, fearing he had taken the prank too far. He looked up, his eyes growing wide as he peered past Dietrich. Without provocation, the corporal jumped to his feet and snapped a salute.

Knowing the salute wasn't meant for him, Dietrich spun around at the touch of a hand on his shoulder.

"Captain Dietrich?" An officer removed his cap and extended his hand. "I'm Major Armstrong."

Dietrich took a moment to appraise the American. Armstrong was a few inches shorter than Hans with chiseled features and a solid build. From the gray at his temples, Dietrich guessed him to be in his early 50's. His uniform was clean and pressed, unlike many of the other American officers who seemed to flaunt their casual appearance as a sign of superiority. Armstrong was obviously a career soldier who would brook no nonsense.

Dietrich shook the major's hand, but it was an empty gesture - a courtesy devoid of emotion.

Armstrong then returned the salute to Harris, who continued to stand at attention. "I want you to report to my office at exactly twelve hundred hours, Corporal." The tone of his voice was both commanding and threatening and Dietrich could imagine the reprimand Corporal Harris would receive.

The major turned his attention to the German. "Follow me, please, Captain," he said, his request somewhere between an order and an invitation. Barely glancing at his guest, Armstrong strode purposefully to the stairs leading to the upper floor. Dietrich wordlessly complied, following the American major up the right side of a double-sided stairway that led to a series of offices lining the upper floor of the immense building. The offices appeared to be identical, each framed by an ornate doorway centered between pillars that divided the long hallway into two lanes of traffic.

Armstrong hurried along the inner corridor and stopped at one of the large oak doors, where he inserted a key into the brass door lock. Slowly opening the door, he ushered his guest inside.

While Dietrich waited for Major Armstrong to settle in, he surveyed the room. It wasn't large by neoclassical standards. The intricately carved desk was the only reminder that this once had been a place of business. It fit comfortably in the room with two large red-leather chairs. A lamp on the desk gave little light; the ceiling fixtures were either broken or burned out. Behind the desk was one large window that caught the morning sun, but Dietrich doubted the dirty window panes would let in much light. Except for the miniature American flag on the major's desk, the room was completely devoid of ornamentation. Lighter patches of wallpaper where pictures once had hung and the bare hardwood floors that were now scuffed and splintered both were evidence of the looting which had run rampant through the city before the Allies' arrival. The sound of the steam radiators hissing seemed to be magnified against the backdrop of the quiet office. The room was becoming unbearably warm.

Using the same tone he had used earlier, the major indicated the two chairs in front of the desk and asked Dietrich to sit down. Hanging his coat and hat on a coat tree next to his desk, he reached for the shade on the window behind him.

"I'd like to apologize for the corporal's behavior," the officer said, pulling the shade down, more to deflect the heat than to block the sun. He turned around and in one fluid movement, pulled the leather swivel chair from behind the desk, sat down heavily, and produced a manila folder. He briefly glanced over the papers, then looked up at Dietrich. "Thank you for coming, Captain."

Dietrich let the apology pass without comment, guessing that the corporal's attitude probably was shared by more than one Allied soldier. He also didn't bother to argue that he was no longer a captain; he didn't feel Armstrong would pay much attention to semantics. Besides, the title - whether real or honorary - would help put him on equal ground with the major. Neatly folding his coat over the arm of the other chair, Hans laid his hat in the seat. He sat down in the second chair. "Do you mind telling me what this is all about, Major?"

Armstrong slowly closed the file on his desk. Rising from his chair, he walked around to the front of the desk and perched on the edge, closing the distance between the two men and allowing the major to loom dauntingly over Dietrich. "We have collected quite a bit of intelligence data on you." He picked up a pack of cigarettes, then offered one to Dietrich.

"No, thank you," Hans declined the offer. He often had used that trick on Allied prisoners . . . let them think that you're their friend, make them feel safe and secure . . . then obtain the information you need without raising your voice. He couldn't afford to get comfortable and drop his guard - not when the most intimate details of his life sat on the desk in front of him.

Armstrong shrugged and replaced the carton on the desk. After lighting the cigarette, he picked up the file and leafed through a few pages. "You had a rather intriguing career. You arrived in Tripoli with Rommel as a junior officer; six months later you had your own command. I'd say that is somewhat exemplary." He looked up from his papers and received nothing in return but unspoken defiance. "Aren't you curious about what is in here?"

Dietrich sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and laid his folded hands in his lap. "I assume it's nothing more than what I told you before leaving Africa," he lied, knowing there had to be some new information the Allies had uncovered - otherwise he would not have been asked to this meeting.

Armstrong continued reading from his file. "You were in command of the 21st Panzer Division of the 90th Light Division, fought at the battle of El Alamein, decorated for bravery with the Knight's Cross and Oak Leaves-"

"Excuse me, Major," Dietrich interrupted, preferring to get to the real reason he had been called to Berlin. "This is ancient history. Surely you had a better reason to ask me here than simply to review my illustrious career."

Major Armstrong smiled and crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk. "All in good time, Captain." He walked back behind his desk and sat down again. Leaning back in his chair, he tossed the folder on his desk. "There is much more in here, but I won't bore you with it. I have only one question before we continue."

Uncrossing his legs and sitting forward in his chair, Dietrich impatiently sighed. He was tiring of this verbal chess match, with each player maneuvering to stay one move ahead of the other. Finally, he asked, "What would that be, Major?"

"Are you a Nazi?" Armstrong, too, had decided to stop playing cat-and-mouse with the German.

"I'm sure you have the answer in your folder, Major," Dietrich answered curtly.

"It says you're a member of the Nazi party. . ." The major sat forward, his arms folded on the desk.

"I am a German," Dietrich interrupted, knowing it wasn't what the officer wanted to hear.

"That's not an appropriate answer."

"You didn't ask an appropriate question."

The two men stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make his next move.

Major Armstrong wasn't interested in debating the difference between a Nazi and a German; he only needed to know where Dietrich's loyalties lay. "You're not going to answer me, are you?"

Dietrich closed his eyes, then smiled at the major. "The one thing I have always admired about Americans is your innate ability to answer your own questions. It makes it easier to obtain the response you expect." Contemplating his next move, Hans rose from his chair and slowly picked up his coat and hat. He turned to face the major. "You have my records - I'll let you come to your own conclusions. Good-day, Major."

"Captain!" Armstrong rose from his chair, intending to stop Dietrich before he could leave the office. "We're not finished yet."

Dietrich turned quickly, anger flashing in his eyes. "What do you want from me, Major? An apology, perhaps?" he bitterly asked. "I hate to disappoint you, but I am not the apologist for the Wehrmacht. I will not ask forgiveness for being a good soldier - for doing my duty to my country. I leave politics to those who have the stomach for it; I suggest you do the same."

Dietrich's hand was on the doorknob when Armstrong appeared in front of him. He tried to pull the door open, but the major's hand on the door prevented him from leaving.

"My God, you _are_ a 'stubborn Kraut.'" Armstrong was almost laughing.

Dietrich understood the comment to be a backhanded compliment. It wasn't the first time he had heard the expression. "So I've been told," he replied, removing his hand from the doorknob, having reached an unspoken understanding with Major Armstrong. However, neither man moved from where they stood, each unwilling to give ground.

Finally, convinced that Captain Dietrich would not leave, Armstrong took his hand off the door. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned on the wall and studied the man in front of him. He was everything army intelligence reported and more - intelligent, honest, strong-willed, and tough. And whether he knew it or not, Dietrich _had _correctly answered his question. "Checkmate, Captain."

Dietrich raised his eyebrows - he might have lost the battle, but not the war. "Perhaps now you will tell me why I'm here."

"We need your help."

"Who, exactly, is 'we,' Major?"

"The Allies."

Dietrich struggled to suppress his laughter. The conversation had just taken a 180-degree turn from the astute to the absurd. He had spent the last five years of his life fighting the Allies, and now, after five months of rest and reflection, they expected him suddenly to put all the bitterness and hatred behind him.

Armstrong could read the disbelief written across Dietrich's face. He held up his hand as if to prevent Hans from speaking. "Hear me out, Captain," he hurriedly interjected before the man could decline the offer.

Due more to discretion than to cynicism, Dietrich remained silent as the major hastily returned to his desk. He pulled out a long cylinder from under his desk; from the cylinder he produced a map.

Unrolling the map, the officer looked up at Dietrich. "There's a Russian POW camp, here, near Kaliningrad on the Baltic Sea," Armstrong began, watching as Dietrich lifted his head to see where he was pointing. "And it's full of German soldiers." He could tell he had piqued Dietrich's curiosity, but the German remained where he was standing. "We'd like _you_ to participate in a mission to liberate these prisoners."

Dietrich calmly walked back to the major's desk and again tossed his hat and coat in the chair. Standing opposite Armstrong, he tilted his head to read the map upside down. A plan immediately began to form in his mind. The camp was in Lithuania, conveniently located at the mouth of a river that originated in the Baltic Sea. With the right sort of transportation, getting the prisoners out using an Allied ship would be simple, but one question plagued Hans. "The Russians are your allies." He leaned across the desk, his hands anchoring each side of the rolled map. "Why can't your government simply demand their return?"

"It is precisely because we are Allies that we cannot make demands on the Russians," Armstrong answered, a little uneasily. The precarious pact with the Soviets was already beginning to fray at the seams. Any undue belligerence by the Allies would certainly be met with hostility and rancor. "And the German government isn't stable enough to be concerned with diplomacy right now."

"And whose fault is that, Major?" Dietrich pointedly asked, referring to the Allies' joint control of Germany. Having divided the country into parcels of war booty to be distributed among the victors, they had made German self-rule impossible.

Armstrong returned the volley. "Politics, Captain?"

A faint smile crossed Dietrich's face. "Touché," he answered. Dietrich clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace in front of the desk. "Tell me, Major, why are the Americans concerned with German prisoners? Isn't this a problem for your League of Nations to decide?"

Armstrong thoughtfully rubbed his chin. "It isn't _our _Leauge of Nations," Armstrong reminded the captain as he took a seat behind the desk. "The Russians are no longer a member of the League of Nations," he answered attempting to avoid the question of American involvement. "And need I remind you, neither is Germany."

Dietrich took note of the deliberate evasion. "And what is America's interest in all of this?" He stopped pacing and looked at Armstrong.

The major folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "I'm afraid that's classified information."

Hans laughed under his breath. "You expect me to risk my life liberating a POW camp and won't tell me why I should do so?"

"Isn't it enough that these are German soldiers you would be freeing?"

"No, Major," Dietrich answered, anger seething just below the surface of his calm facade. "Not when I'm to be made the scapegoat, and my country accused of espionage if something goes wrong."

"You won't be working alone, Captain," Armstrong stated emphatically as Dietrich picked up his hat and coat and started for the door again. "We'll give you a crack team of soldiers for back-up - the best in the business. You _won't_ fail."

Dietrich turned slowly and cast his gaze at Armstrong. "In which case you will take the credit if I succeed. I am sorry, Major; I am not the Christian you can throw to the lions."

The time had come for Armstrong to play his ace-in-the-hole. He picked up the intelligence report and extracted a single sheet of paper. "Does the name 'SS Captain Wansee' ring a bell with you?"

Dietrich came to a full stop. Wansee . . . he doubted he would ever forget that name. "It sounds familiar," he feigned ignorance. He turned again to face Major Armstrong.

"We have a report here that you killed a fellow officer in cold blood." Armstrong's voice rang with accusation. "Not only is that murder, but I believe it's a case for treason."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dietrich lied. Of course he knew who Wansee was; he had relived that day in the desert for months afterward. It was the day he had acted against everything he had ever learned, everything his training had taught him. It was the day he had discovered a barbarous side of himself that was too painful to acknowledge. The cold brutality of his action had plagued his dreams at night and his days had been spent in fear of being found out. Now the incident had risen to haunt him again.

"Come now, Captain," Armstrong's attitude had suddenly become cold and condescending. "I have a complete report of what took place outside the Naza village. Captain Wansee was shot in the back from some distance, and the only person who could've done it. . ." The major tossed the paper back on the desk. ". . . was you."

"You have no proof," Dietrich shot back, not bothering to deny his part in the murder any longer.

"I have witnesses," Armstrong contended.

Dietrich took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He had but to close his eyes and the scene in the scorching desert played out before him. "He was insane," Hans explained. "He would've killed Sergeant Moffitt and Miss Arno - I had to stop him."

"I'm sure the court will take that into account in your defense," Armstrong said threateningly.

Dietrich drew himself up. The major certainly was a good chess player, but he wasn't sure if Armstrong's poker skills were as refined. The only witnesses who had survived that attack were Miss Arno and the members of the Rat Patrol, and none of them had seen him shoot Wansee. He had made certain of that point. Any accusations of murder would be made on mere speculation and under normal circumstances they would not stand in court. But the definition of "normal" had taken on new meaning these days, each side bending the terminology to fit their needs at the moment. Even though Dietrich had, in fact, saved all of their lives that day, technically he was guilty of murder and treason and he was certain that the Allies would take advantage of that. The world was looking for someone to blame for the debacle of the recent war. Now, as the evidence of war crimes committed by the Nazis began to unfold, every German officer had become suspect - guilty before proven innocent. His particular indiscretion would be the perfect opportunity to prove how deeply atrocity ran in the German army. However, Dietrich remained certain that, if tried by any military court, his former enemies would come to his defense rather than his prosecution. He decided to call the major's bluff.

"You cannot blackmail me either, Major. The answer is still 'no.'"

Dietrich's departure soon was followed by a knock on Major Armstrong's office door. "Come in," the officer barked, disgust darkening his voice. He didn't bother to look at his visitor. "He didn't bite," the major said as he rose from his chair and raised the blind at his window. "Damn Kraut!"

"I told you he wouldn't, Major." The younger soldier failed to salute before he sat down in the same red-leather chair Dietrich had recently vacated. He unzipped his leather jacket a few inches and loosened the khaki tie at the neck of his khaki shirt. Removing his wool gloves, he shoved them into the pockets of his jacket. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"I don't think it will make a difference." The major remained where he was, staring at the narrow street outside his window. "He's just a little too damn smart for his own good."

The visitor leaned forward, bringing his features from shadow into sunlight. He was fifteen to twenty years younger than the officer. His brown hair matched his brown eyes, and his square jaw underscored his intense features. "We need him, Major. He's a natural born leader. The POWs will trust him. I won't risk my men to rescue a bunch of Germans just because the General Staff wants to play the schoolyard bully to the Russians."

Armstrong whirled around, not used to being treated with such casualness from the lower ranks. He watched the man seated across from him. There was an air of authority about him, a self-confidence born of experience, and the major decided to let his insubordination pass. "There is much more to this than just flexing muscle." He jerked the chair away from the desk and sat down sternly. "You know that, I'm sure."

The younger officer suddenly stood and leaned over the desk. "Then let me talk to him. I know him. I know how he thinks. He won't be swayed by threats. It's like you said, he's too smart for that. You have to get him where it hurts the most."

"And where would that be?"

"His pride."

The major studied his visitor's determined face. "Very well," he decided at last, "nothing I said seemed to have any effect on him." Armstrong withdrew two slips of paper from his desk drawer. He signed the first one and handed it over. "Take one of the staff cars and a driver. Report back to me as soon as you get a decision from him." He then signed the other smaller form on his desk. "And give this to him - it's a gasoline ration coupon. We owe him that much, at least."

The younger man triumphantly smiled and turned toward the door. Getting permission to negotiate with Hauptmann Dietrich was only half the fight - the decisive battle was yet to come.

"And Sergeant Troy," Armstrong called across the room. "This is your only chance to persuade him. I won't be begging a lousy German for help."

_Then that's your loss_, Troy thought as he pulled the heavy door open. Discretion being the better part of audacity, he thought twice about voicing his opinion. Instead, he waved a half-hearted salute in the major's general direction. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice tinged sarcasm rather than respect as he closed the door behind him.

He wasn't sure why this particular group of German POWs was so important, but he couldn't resist the chance to work in tandem with the man who had been his chief nemesis for so many years. "Don't worry, Major," Troy mumbled to himself, grinning with self-satisfaction, "Dietrich _can _be persuaded; you just have to know which carrot to dangle in front of him."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

The drive home went quickly. Although the sun was warm, there still was a chill in the air; Dietrich rolled down his window to take advantage of what was left of this crisp morning. The cold air helped him to clear his mind of the miasma that had formed in his memory. He lit a cigarette and retraced the morning's development.

The question that repeatedly baffled him was "Why?" Why had the Americans gone through such great trouble to contact him . . . to invite him to a meeting that was over before it had begun? Did the Americans think he could be cajoled or intimidated into accepting the mission? He cared deeply about the soldiers held captive by the Russians, but was convinced they could be retrieved through diplomatic channels. It was his opinion that a rescue mission would be needed only as a last measure when all other non-aggressive avenues had been exhausted.

Why did they think he would be willing to risk his life for an Allied cause? After almost two years in an Allied POW camp, he had had enough of the Allied cause to last him a lifetime. Why this sudden interest in a group of German POWs? Why this one group in particular? Perhaps it wasn't the entire group they were concerned about, but one specific man. He had no proof of his suspicions, but the major's reluctance to share his "classified information" made Dietrich even more skeptical.

And why bring up the Wansee episode now? No one had mentioned it during his debriefing before leaving North Africa, and he had not been questioned about it during the ensuing two years of captivity. Why had it suddenly become so important?

Finally the question that would fit the pieces of the puzzle together - why him? Surely there were more capable Allied soldiers who would consider it an honor to serve their respective countries. Why did they want an ex-Wehrmacht captain . . . a soldier without an army . . . an officer without a command?

Lost in concentration, Hans nearly missed the road that led to the village that now was his home. He was undecided about how much of his conversation with Major Armstrong he would share with Ilsa. He wasn't sure he would be able to discuss intelligently his parley with the major, and he expected Ilsa would have as many questions as he did. Turning into his driveway, Hans received an unexpected reprieve from reliving the morning's events; the Moenich's sedan was parked in front of the house.

Getting out of the car, Hans hurriedly crushed the cigarette in the gravel under the toe of his shoe. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he sprinted up the few steps to the front door. As he quietly opened the door, Dietrich prayed no one would be standing in the hall to greet him.

Stepping inside the empty foyer, he was relieved not to encounter a welcoming party composed of virtual strangers. Hans listened a moment to the sound of murmured conversation coming from the drawing room. Slowly and deliberately, he placed his coat and hat on the hall valet and made a concentrated effort to push aside his meeting with Armstrong to focus on the Moenichs and his new house guests.

Buttoning his suit jacket, Hans stepped into the drawing room. The discussion immediately stopped as every eye in the room converged on him. "I'm sorry I'm late," he apologized, even though the Moenichs had not been expected until later that afternoon.

"Hauptmann Dietrich!" Frau Moenich instantly took Hans by his arm and escorted him into the room.

Hans glanced at Ilsa as her expression turned from a hospitable smile to deep concern. The Mueller's arrival meant her questions would have to wait until they were alone. As their eyes met, he smiled, hoping to alleviate her fears.

"These are the Muellers," Lucie Moenich announced, bubbling with enthusiasm. At the introduction, the Muellers rose as one from the couch. Frau Moenich nodded her head in the direction of a small, thin woman. "This is Frau Mueller."

She was wearing a blue dress that was a size too big; Dietrich wondered if it had fit her at one time. Her dark hair, which was pulled back into a braid that reached just below her shoulders, emphasized her very pale complexion. The dark circles under her brown eyes colored her face with the pallor of death.

Hans only could imagine what horrors the woman had faced. If he ever had questioned the advisability of allowing total strangers to share his home, his doubt was completely erased when he shook her hand. Her palm was cold and clammy, and her frail hand shook nervously. He covered their clasped hands with his free hand to reassure her that she and her family were welcome.

"How do you do?" he asked with a gentle smile of congeniality.

"It's very kind of you to allow us to stay here." Clara's soft voice was almost a whisper, her smile a timid shadow of controlled anticipation.

"It's our pleasure," Hans assured her. "Who is this?" he asked, bending over to take a closer look at the child at Frau Mueller's side.

The little girl firmly clutched her mother's arm, attempting to hide behind her skirt while maintaining eye contact with the man in front of her. Although she was two years older than Gretchen, Hans guessed she was only as tall as his daughter. She had her mother's dark hair, plaited into two braids, and dark eyes that reflected the same fear present in her mother's eyes. She clung tightly to a worn rag doll, afraid it would be taken away if she were to let go.

Clara Mueller gently pulled her arm from her daughter's grip. Placing her hands on the child's shoulders, she gave her a slight push forward. "This is my daughter, Rosa." She smiled proudly. "I'm afraid she's a bit shy."

Hans smiled warmly. "That's understandable," he said, glancing up at Frau Mueller. He looked back at Rosa. "You're a very pretty little girl. I hope you'll let me be your friend." He was relieved when the child did not flinch as he touched her cheek.

"This is Martin Mueller," Frau Moenich said, introducing the young man to her right. "Martin, this is Hauptmann Hans Dietrich."

Dietrich thought he detected a slight hesitancy in her voice. He was about to offer his hand when both he and Frau Moenich were forced to recoil as the boy suddenly thrust his right hand forward. "Heil Hitler!" the young man saluted Hans at full attention.

Surprised and somewhat appalled, Dietrich considered how to react to this awkward show of patriotism. He had avoided using the Nazi salute whenever possible, and when he did, the salute usually deteriorated into a half-hearted wave of his hand.

Hans made a quick appraisal of the young man. His blond hair was cropped close to his scalp and his cold, blue eyes stared defiantly into the distance. If Clara Mueller had not claimed him as her son, Hans would never have guessed that the two were related. He assumed the boy had inherited his father's features. His black wool coat was patched discretely at the pockets and the sleeves were an inch or two too short for his long arms. His trousers were clean but old; the picture of pride and poverty was completed by worn brown boots, which probably were a size too small for his feet. If the boy had not made everyone in the room uncomfortable with his inappropriate zeal, Hans would have felt sorry for him.

Instead, he decided to take control of the situation at once. Reaching out, he pushed the boy's arm down to his side. "Hitler is dead," he responded, his tone amounting to a warning. "It's time for us all to move on."

"The Führer's glory will live on forever," Martin proudly announced, clearly expecting an argument.

"Martin!" Clara Mueller gasped in embarrassment. "Where are your manners?"

"Hauptmann Dietrich is a German officer," Martin argued belligerently. His gaze met Dietrich's. "But perhaps he is not a loyal German officer."

Dietrich's eyes narrowed in anger. "How dare you-" He was stopped by Ilsa's hand on his arm, warning him not to make a scene. He looked at her and immediately collected himself.

"Hauptmann Dietrich," Clara Mueller passionately implored her host. "Please, forgive him. He's an idealistic boy. He. . ." She could find no words to defend her son's actions.

Dietrich drew in a deep breath. He eyed Martin suspiciously, hoping the boy had enough sense not to continue the debate. "It is not important," he answered calmly. "Perhaps we are all not what we seem to be."

"We should show Frau Mueller and her family to their rooms," Ilsa suggested in an attempt to dispel the tension in the room.

"Splendid idea!" Edward Moenich instantly agreed. "Martin, come help me with your things." Rising from his chair in the corner, Herr Moenich started towards the door. The boy apathetically followed the older man.

Finding himself in an unexpected position of power, Moenich reached behind him and caught Martin's arm. He pulled the young man around in front of him and hastily ushered him out of the front door; Frau Moenich followed to offer her supervision.

Hans was about to follow the two other men when Ilsa stopped him. "Hans, wait." Ilsa glanced at Clara, who still was a bit shaken by her son's behavior. "Please, excuse us, Clara," Ilsa asked. She took her husband's hand and left by the side entrance to the parlor, closing the double doors behind her.

Sitting on the couch, Clara watched as her hosts departed. She began to worry that Martin's behavior might have jeopardized their situation. He was young and at times, unreasonable. He had been labeled a "malcontent" by the local authorities at home, but Clara felt he simply was misguided. She could not help wondering how his father's premature death had affected her son's behavior.

Sighing as she looked around the room, Clara gathered her daughter closer to her side. The house was large by any standards, and the well-furnished rooms reflected the tradition and heritage of a very old German family. Clara had worked as a cleaning woman in houses like this before the war; she was uncertain how one lived in such a home. She was beginning to feel completely overwhelmed.

Rising from the couch, Clara began to nervously pace the room. She glanced at her daughter who quietly remained seated, following her mother's every move. Clara was drawn to the pictures on the fireplace mantel. Inspecting each one closely, she tried to imagine how all of these people might be related. Turning back to Rosa, she asked, "Would you like to look at the pictures, darling?"

Wordlessly, Rosa climbed down from the sofa and joined her mother.

"Ilsa. . ." Hans began, startled by his wife's impulsive conduct. "We shouldn't leave Frau Mueller-"

"I know," Ilsa interrupted her husband. Unable to look him in the face, Ilsa delicately laid her hands on his chest. "I'm sorry, but I want to know what happened this morning," she said, raising her head to look in his eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, Hans lovingly collected her hands in his. "I should have guessed." He was both amused and touched by her concern. "There is no trouble," he said, immediately allaying her fears. "They asked me for help; that is all."

A note of puzzlement appeared in Ilsa's eyes. Why would the Allies ask her husband for help?

Hans recognized the quizzical look that passed over his wife's features. "But I declined their offer," he added, hoping to avoid answering the same questions he had asked himself. This was not the time to bring up the suspicious death of Captain Wansee, or his involvement in it.

Relieved by Hans' assurance, Ilsa wrapped her arms around her husband and drew him into a tender embrace. They shared a brief kiss, then Ilsa suggested they should rejoin the others.

"By all means," Hans agreed, "before that boy raises the swastika over the door!"

Frau Mueller and her daughter still were occupied with the family pictures when Ilsa and Hans re-entered the room. Hans glanced at Ilsa and joined the Muellers, who were sharing a giggle.

"That was my grandfather," Hans commented, clasping his hands behind his back as he peered over Clara Mueller's shoulder.

Clara immediately stiffened and stammered an apology while replacing the picture on the mantelpiece. "I'm sorry, Herr Hauptmann." She fumbled with the picture, then backed away from Dietrich.

"Please," Dietrich could almost feel her nervousness. "You needn't be afraid." He smiled pleasantly, unsure how to handle such a self-effacing woman. He retrieved his grandfather's picture and held it low enough for Rosa to see. "He was a colonel in the Kaiser's army," Hans explained, obviously proud of his family's military heritage.

Rosa giggled again and pointed to the man's peaked helmet. "He has a funny hat." She laughed and then pulled her finger away.

Hans laughed too. "I suppose he does," he answered, never before having considered his grandfather's uniform from a child's perspective.

A clamor in the hallway caught everyone's attention. Hans replaced the picture on the mantel and quickly crossed the drawing room to find boxes and bags of all shapes and sizes, arranged on one side of the hall. Edward Moenich staggered in with four suitcases, one under each arm and one in each hand. Dietrich instantly went to his rescue. Relieving Herr Moenich of the luggage, he set the cases in front of the group of other parcels, and briefly surveyed the assorted containers. It was apparent the belongings had been packed in a hurry without much care given to content or neatness. Rolled trousers lay atop one brown bag; a box rattled with eating utensils and dishes. The suitcases were old and beaten, scarred by years of use; most were held together with some sort of restraint to prevent them from spilling open. These were remnants of a life, Hans reflected, the last things the Muellers were able to collect before the air raids.

"Is there more?" Hans asked Herr Moenich, who was precariously perched on one of the trunks. His round face was a frightening shade of red, and he had opened his shirt and tie at the neck. "Are you well?" he asked, concerned that Moenich had overexerted himself.

"I'm fine," Edward answered, wiping his brow. He stuffed the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket and shook his head, then smiled up at Dietrich. "Martin is retrieving the last of the trunks."

"I'll see if I can help."

Hans was almost at the door when Martin appeared, struggling with a case that was obviously too heavy for him. He moved to take the trunk from the boy, but Martin jerked it away.

"I can carry it." Martin maintained his grip on the container and shakily moved past Dietrich. He set the case on the floor with a resounding thud, then sat on the trunk to collect his strength.

Hans shook his head as he watched the young man grapple with the trunk. Martin Mueller was an odd mixture of stubbornness, rebellion, and frustration. He, too, was looking for someone to blame - for his father's death, for a childhood that had been denied him, and for promises made but never kept. However, Hans did not intend to allow the boy to use him as a scapegoat. _If the boy is looking for a battle of wills_, Dietrich thought, _he has come to the right place_.

"You look tired," Ilsa commented as she stood in the doorway to Hans' office. He had eaten well at dinner, but it might have been the only thing he had had all day. Although he had gamely upheld his side of the conversation at the table, the dark circles under his eyes and the way his head nodded as he fought to keep his eyes open attested to his exhaustion.

Ilsa quietly walked across the aged brocade rug that covered most of the floor. It was a deep red with colorful Persian designs in each corner. The middle of the carpet, worn in some places and threadbare in others, was a lighter shade than the edges. However, Hans had refused to replace it with

something newer, claiming there still was some wear left in the rug. Ilsa knew he held onto it for sentimental reasons.

She looked around the dimly lit room. It seemed to her that he held on to many things for sentimental reasons - the chair that had been his father's, the desk that had belonged to his grandfather, and the pictures on the wall that celebrated an era long since past. He even used an oil lamp on the desk, ostensibly to save electricity, but Ilsa suspected it was because his mother had read to him by the light of that lamp. She seated herself in the chair next to his desk, facing him.

Hans looked up from the paper he held in his hand. The sound of her familiar voice displaced his troubled thoughts, like the cool night bringing relief from the blistering desert sun. "You've had a long day, also."

Ilsa removed the cotton scarf she had used to cover her hair while she helped the Muellers unpack. She ran her fingers over her scalp and shook her head, attempting to restore life to her flattened hair. She was tired. After fixing dinner, helping their guests, and putting Gretchen to bed, she felt she was entitled to a few minutes of relaxation. Ilsa stretched as best she could in the heavy wooden chair and yawned. "What are you reading?"

Hans tossed the paper in Ilsa's general direction and it landed at her elbow. "It's a poor excuse for a newspaper."

Ilsa read the title of the thin tabloid. "_Der Taggespiegel_," she murmured. "Another American paper?" she asked while flipping through the pages.

Hans nodded his head. "'_Die Allgemeine Zeitung_' is no longer in print." Along with the revitalization of Berlin had come the renewal of communication. The American newspaper had been the first publication produced after the occupation, covering everything from manhole explosions to the war in the Pacific. "This is supposed to be a German publication. They received a permit from the Americans to publish it."

Dietrich watched as Ilsa turned the first two pages of the paper and became engrossed with an article at the top of the next page. She had a smudge of black across her forehead and on the tip of her nose. The flickering lamplight highlighted the gold in her hair and the soft curves of her profile. "You worked hard today," he commented guiltily. "I wish you had allowed me to help."

"All you know how to do is stand around and give commands," she laughed, as she folded the newspaper and laid it on the corner of his desk. She knew he had a gift for organization, but his military bearing tended to make Clara Mueller uncomfortable. She also did not need him around to antagonize Martin. "Leave the real work to the foot soldiers." Ilsa smiled at her husband, her eyes dancing with amusement.

Hans could not help laughing with her. Taking her hand, he held it to his lips and left a lingering kiss. "You are my heart," he whispered as he looked at her face glowing in the soft light.

"And you are mine," Ilsa answered, reaching out to touch his face. A tear trickled down her cheek as she recalled the days she had spent waiting for word from him. The feelings she had experienced during the months of worry when she was unsure whether he was dead or alive, and the overwhelming joy she had felt when she knew he was safe in an Allied POW camp, abruptly resurfaced. Even now there were times when she thought his presence in the house was a dream.

Holding her hand in his, Hans asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Ilsa answered, shaking her head. The past was better left in the past. She rose from the chair and held out her hands to him. "Let's go to bed."

The peaceful night was abruptly interrupted by a piercing scream. Hans immediately sat upright in the dark and listened. He heard a child's cry followed by the sound of muffled voices.

Ilsa raised herself on one elbow as Hans wrapped his dressing gown around him. "What is it?" she asked, unaware that anything was wrong.

"Someone is crying. It sounds like Gretchen," Hans whispered. "I'll go check on her."

Ilsa listened as the stifled sobbing continued. She looked up at Hans. "That's not Gretchen." Slipping into her robe, she accompanied her husband to the room they had set aside for the Muellers.

Dietrich stood just inside the doorway, allowing Ilsa to precede him into the bedroom the little girl shared with her mother. Dressed in a flannel nightgown, Clara Mueller sat on the edge of the bed, gently rocking the distraught youngster in her lap. Martin stood nearby, delicately stroking his sister's head, offering what comfort he could.

Ilsa cautiously hovered over the mother and daughter, prepared to volunteer her assistance if needed. She and Clara spoke soothingly to the child, but Rosa refused to be consoled. She hid her face in her mother's gown, and when she looked up, her eyes were red and swollen. The sight of so many people gathered around her frightened her even more and her crying grew louder.

Hans had very little experience with children; a little girl in such distress was beyond his capabilities. He remained in the doorway, feeling useless, then felt a small hand slip into his own. Gretchen stood beside him, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, her lower lip trembling. Surprised by this unexpected show of trust, he knelt beside her and held her by her waist. She had come to him more out of fear than affection, but he decided to make the best of the momentary intimacy.

"You should be in bed," Hans said, although he realized no one would get much sleep this night.

"I can't sleep," Gretchen answered with a quiver in her voice. "Why is Rosa crying?" she asked, beginning to cry herself.

Dietrich picked up his daughter and was pleased when she offered no resistance. He held his daughter's head on his shoulder and whispered in her ear, "She's frightened. Perhaps she woke up and didn't know where she was."

Gretchen raised her head and stared at Rosa. The crying had dwindled to a mere whimper and she wiped away her own tears with the back of her hand.

Hans looked at his daughter watching Rosa and resolved to teach his Gretchen a little responsibility. "Why don't you see if you can help her feel better." _There is an understanding between children_, Dietrich thought as he waited for his daughter's decision, _an awareness and empathy that becomes lost as the innocence of childhood is left behind_. He knew that his child was capable of compassion, but she needed to learn how to express it.

Gretchen looked at her father in puzzlement. Without further discussion, she appeared to understand what was expected of her. After Hans put her back down on the floor, Gretchen hesitantly joined the others at the side of the bed, where her mother stood with Frau Mueller. She reached out her hand to stroke Rosa's arm that lay limply across her mother's knees. "Don't be afraid, Rosa," she stated with the wisdom of innocence, "nothing bad can happen to you now. Your mama and brother are here and my mama and papa are here, too. They won't let anything hurt you."

Rosa lifted her head to look at Gretchen, and a half-smile played on her lips. Whatever intangible connection the two children shared had brought a light back into Rosa's eyes. Gretchen held her friend's hand, the same way her mama held hers when she was afraid. She remained there until Rosa finally fell asleep again.

Gretchen yawned as Ilsa bent over to kiss her daughter's head. "I have never been more proud of you," she whispered as she brushed Gretchen's bangs off her forehead, "but it's time for you to go back to bed, too."

Gretchen nodded in silent agreement. She held out her arms, expecting her mother to pick her up, but it was Hans who swept her up in his arms and carried her back to her room.

The next morning started late for everyone. By the time breakfast was finished it was nearly noon, as each family adjusted its daily schedules to accommodate the other. Ilsa and Clara began their round of daily chores, and the two children played in Gretchen's nursery. Dietrich wasn't certain how Martin kept himself occupied. As long as he stayed out of sight and out of trouble, he wasn't going to make any extra effort to entertain the boy.

Hans stiffly settled himself behind the desk in his office. The inherent cold of November had settled into the house and his ribs, which never had mended properly and bitterly complained about the weather. He thought about starting a fire, but decided it was best not to use more firewood than was necessary.

He was feeling lost again and arbitrarily blamed it on the presence of another family in the house. Hauptmann Hans Dietrich was accustomed to routine. Military life had been easy

in that respect. He knew where he should be and when he should be there. He always knew what was expected of him, and he knew how to do his job. Civilian life seemed to be a series of unexpected twists and turns, with problems arising when he least expected them. No matter how hard he tried to adjust, the result remained an uncomfortable feeling that he didn't belong.

Hans consoled himself with the thought that the current situation would, at the most, last only a month. He then reminded himself it would be best to live the example he had tried to teach his daughter earlier in the middle of the night.

Deitrich's sympathy went out to their current house guests. Violently uprooted from their homes and forced to carry on without a husband and father, Clara and her children could look forward to nothing but hard times ahead. His thoughts strayed to the deceased Ernst Mueller. The name had sounded familiar, but he had seen many Muellers pass through the ranks in North Africa. The two men had served on opposite sides of the world and probably had never met. Yet, the name lingered in his memory.

Hans shrugged off the mysterious feeling that had tightened around him. Looking around his study, his gaze fell on a box marked with a black swastika and addressed to his wife. He knew the box contained his personal effects, which had been sent home upon his surrender. Ilsa had never opened it. For five months, he had repeatedly promised himself that he would go through the carton, discard the useless things he had collected over the years and keep the important remembrances. The difficulty, he thought, was to be able to tell the difference.

25


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

"You have a beautiful home," Clara Mueller commented, as she dried the last plate and stacked it in the bureau in the kitchen.

Ilsa turned off the faucet and unplugged the drain in the sink. Untying her apron, she watched as the dishwater swirled in circles around the sink and disappeared down the drain. Smiling, she hung her apron behind the door in the kitchen.

"Thank you," she answered politely. "My husband inherited it from his father. It's been in his family for generations." Ilsa turned and took the dishtowel from Clara. "We had a home in Berlin," she continued while hanging the damp towel on the dowel attached to the door, "but it was destroyed in the bombing." Her hands rested momentarily on the towel rod; her voice suddenly became mournful and quiet.

"Then you understand," Clara said, surprised that she and this woman might have something in common, no matter how horrible.

Ilsa simply nodded her head. The house on Wilhemstrasse had been _theirs_; furnished with furniture they had picked out, decorated in Ilsa's own particular taste. For the last five years of their marriage, it had been their _home_. It had taken a long time for her to acknowledge the rubble that littered the vacant lot as the remnants of their cherished house. Even now, the memory brought tears to her eyes.

Clara immediately suspected she had broached a painful subject. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that, I thought. . ."

Ilsa looked down, collected herself, and turned to face Clara. "It's all in the past now," she answered. "Please don't apologize. I have much to be thankful for." Optimism was the one thing she refused to concede to the war.

A knock on the front door caught the women's attention. Gretchen ran into the kitchen. "Mama," she squealed breathlessly, "there is someone at the front door."

Gretchen's arrival was soon followed by Rosa, who also seemed equally excited at the prospect of a visitor.

"You needn't holler," Ilsa reminded her daughter. Stepping past the children, she led a parade of the two girls and Rosa's mother through her house. Passing the drawing room, she noticed Martin, who had apparently made himself at home and had availed himself of the books in the library.

Opening the door a fraction, Ilsa peered around it to look at the stranger.

"Frau Dietrich?"

"_Ja?_" she responded, before opening the door any further.

"Good morning," the man answered in English. Politely removing his hat he announced, "My name is Sam Troy. I'd like to speak with your husband."

Ilsa had not had much contact with the British, but she was certain Sam Troy was not English. Direct and forthright, it was more his attitude than his accent that suggested he was an American. She immediately equated this American with her husband's trip to Berlin the day before.

Hans had assured her that he was not in trouble; they only had wanted his help. Ilsa suspected this man had been sent to change Hans' mind.

Hesitantly, she opened the door wide enough for the children to crowd the entrance, attempting to get a better look at the mysterious man on their doorstep. She spoke to them in German and they moved back a sufficient distance to clear a space. "Please, come in," Ilsa instructed the stranger.

Troy took a step inside as his welcoming party took a collective step backwards. Smiling, he bent over to introduce himself to the blonde girl who stayed close to Frau Dietrich. He could detect a resemblance to the captain in the child's face. "You must be Gretchen," he said, offering his hand in a gesture of friendship.

If he was going to have any influence over Hauptmann Dietrich, he thought, he might as well lay on the charm with his family.

Gretchen was dumfounded. The man was speaking to her, but the only word she recognized was her name. "_Was spricht er, Mama?_" she asked, wide-eyed and obviously confused.

Ilsa gently stroked Gretchen's head. "_Meine_ daughter," she said, struggling with English. "She does not. . ." She stumbled trying to find the right word. ". . . Speak," she finally managed. "She does not speak English."

The language was difficult enough to juggle, but Ilsa's greatest worry was how this American knew her daughter's name.

"I'm sorry," Troy explained, shrugging. "I guess that makes us even. I don't speak German."

Ilsa nodded in understanding. She waved her hand in the direction of the sitting room. "Please, wait here. I will say to Hans you are here." She sighed heavily, hoping she had conveyed the correct instructions.

Troy followed Frau Dietrich into the drawing room. He watched as Dietrich's wife asked the young man sitting on the couch to leave. After a hushed discussion, the boy left with indignation oozing from every pore. Another conversation in German sent the other woman and the two girls out of the room and up the stairs.

Ilsa nervously indicated the chair behind Troy. "Sit, please. May I put your coat. . .?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks." Troy sat in the wing-backed armchair. The house was a little cold, and he did not want to cause Frau Dietrich any more trouble. "I'll just wait here," he said, hinting that he was eager to speak with Ilsa's husband.

"Certainly," Ilsa nodded, and left the room, pulling the double doors closed behind her.

Hans was about to open the box in his lap when Ilsa suddenly appeared in the doorway. She nervously twisted a handkerchief as she stepped inside and sat in a chair across the room from her husband.

"Ilsa, what's wrong?" Hans asked, concerned at his wife's apparent distress. She was normally the calm in the eye of a storm, the picture of composure even as adversity swarmed around her. He very rarely had seen her so consumed with worry.

"There's someone here to see you," she answered, her voice faltering.

"To see me?" He looked away from his wife, searching his memory for an appointment he had failed to keep, or a scheduled visit he had forgotten. When he came up empty handed, he asked, "Who is it?"

"He's an American, I think." Ilsa hesitated. "He said his name is Sam Troy."

The unopened box fell to the floor when Dietrich abruptly rose from his chair. A thousand memories competed with hundreds of questions as Ilsa's words replayed in his mind. Perhaps his hearing had deceived him. "Did you say 'Sam Troy?'"

Hans' reaction to the unexpected visitor compounded Ilsa's anxiety. "Yes," she answered. "Do you know who he is?"

Dietrich's anger flared. The man he had chased over the North African desert for more than two years, the soldier who had been personally responsible for the death of so many of his men, the one person who made his life a living hell and still haunted his dreams, was now waiting for him in his house. Did the American's audacity never stop?

Without answering his wife's question, Dietrich headed for the door. Ilsa stopped him, grabbing him by both arms. She halted his progress and forced him to look at her. "Hans, who is he?" she demanded. His reaction to the man's name was enough to convince Ilsa that the stranger in their sitting room was not unfamiliar to her husband.

Hans studied Ilsa's eyes, which were pleading with him for an answer. Suddenly, he wanted to tell her everything - to describe the battles won and lost, the missions carried out in the blistering day sun, and the clandestine meetings held in the middle of the cold nights. He needed to share his experiences with the Arabs, the Allies, and everyone who had crossed his path and changed his life in minute increments during the years they had been separated. At once it was important for him to fill in the details of a life she could only guess at. These memories welled up within him, along with the answers Ilsa needed to hear, but now was not the time to purge his soul.

"I will tell you, I promise, but not now." Hans could immediately tell Ilsa would not be placated so easily.

"Then I am going with you."

"Please, Ilsa, let me handle this alone," he implored her, but the determined set of his wife's jaw told him it was no sense arguing. "Very well," he finally decided. She would know the whole truth eventually; it was probably best to allow her to hear both sides of the impending argument. "But no questions until Troy has left."

Ilsa nodded her head in compliance with his order. It was just as well - she was sure she did not know enough to ask any questions.

Dietrich slid the double doors open and allowed his wife to enter before him. The sight of Sam Troy in his drawing room unnerved him. Of the multitude of emotions that washed over him, he grasped at the anger.

Slamming the doors shut, he said sharply, "I don't suppose I need to ask why you're here."

Troy rose slowly from the chair and carefully assessed the captain's mood. He supposed this fit of anger was to be expected. The last time their paths had crossed was at the battle of Tel el Aqqaqir. Seven months later, as he traveled to his new assignment in Berlin, Troy had heard of Dietrich's surrender to the British. The news of Hauptmann Dietrich's capitulation had touched a chord of remorse within him then. Dietrich had been a worthy adversary - an enemy who had earned the respect of the opposing forces, as well as his own men. The humiliation of subjugating himself to the Allies must have been a debilitating defeat to such a proud officer. Troy was glad he had not been there to witness the man's surrender.

Sam Troy watched as Dietrich moved across the room and closed the doors that led to the hallway. He was much thinner than he had been two years ago, and the seemingly permanent tan had completely faded. But the fire that had allowed him to persevere through all sorts of adversity was still there and Troy was, once again, on the receiving end of that ire. Some things never changed.

"I'm sure my being here must be a tremendous shock to you," Troy commented, attempting to deflect the oncoming deluge.

"Still the master of understatement, aren't you, Sergeant?" Dietrich walked back to face Sergeant Troy. "It is still 'Sergeant,' isn't it?" he continued without waiting for a reply. "Or have they finally promoted you to a rank worthy of your talents for destruction?"

Troy was taken aback by Dietrich's apparent hostility. The war was over. Technically, they were no longer enemies, yet the captain still harbored a great deal of animosity towards him. Perhaps the defeat had cut deeper than Troy suspected.

"I know how you must feel," the American offered, hoping to defuse this volatile situation.

Hans laughed under his breath as he closed his eyes. He tiredly ran his hand across his face and slowly opened his eyes to focus on Troy. "Do you?" he asked, his sudden calmness was almost as frightening as his anger. Dietrich was convinced that the American sergeant could not possibly

understand the personal and professional turmoil he had been through in the past two-and-a-half years. The victors of war had little to regret.

Hans could feel Ilsa's eyes follow him around the room. He instantly regretted allowing her to be part of this interview. Reining in his anger, he thought better of antagonizing Sergeant Troy, hoping that calm discussion would allow them to finish quickly this bit of unsavory business.

"Please, sit down," Dietrich offered politely, although hospitality was the last thing he wanted to offer to the American.

Troy hesitated; he wanted to point out the captain had caused his share of mayhem in the desert, and he remained a sergeant because he had declined any offers to promote him to a higher rank. But he hadn't traveled all this way to reminisce or defend himself, so he took a moment to consider the fate of the mission that hinged on Herr Hauptmann's participation. Deciding that he wouldn't gain any ground by arguing, he decided to comply with Dietrich's instructions.

With his hands clasped behind his back, Hans held himself erect as he paced the length of the room between Ilsa, seated on the couch and Troy, seated across the room from her. He steadfastly refused to make eye contact with either one of them. It appeared that Sergeant Troy was the linchpin of this operation. Everything was beginning to become clear to Hans.

It probably was Troy who suggested that he be approached with the mission to liberate the prison camp. They needed a German officer; it was no secret that Troy and Dietrich had shared a mutual respect and admiration for each other at one time . . . the ex-Wehrmacht captain was the perfect choice. The "crack team of soldiers" Major Armstrong had alluded to was probably the rest of Troy's unit. From bitter experience, they knew Dietrich's strengths and weaknesses as well as he knew theirs. If they could put aside their differences, the pairing would be a perfect match.

Dietrich's brow was furrowed in concentration. Finally, he stopped pacing. There was only one assumption the Allies had made which was inherently wrong. Whatever feelings he had for Troy were purely professional. He could not afford the luxury of caring for the American on a personal level . . . it would have been too dangerous.

With his back to Sergeant Troy, staring into the empty fireplace, he quietly asked, "Did they send you here to convince me to join in your little escapade?"

"No," Troy answered honestly. "This was my idea, but I did get special permission to come here." Dietrich remained turned away from him and the sergeant could not gauge his response. "Major Armstrong is convinced you're not interested."

Dietrich lightly laughed under his breath. Perhaps there was a twisted humor to this whole charade that eluded him. The Americans wanted to be his friends now. Sergeant Troy certainly thought he held some sort of sway over him - that their previous association might influence his decision. As far as Hans was concerned, the Allies had cornered the market on arrogance.

He turned to face Troy. "Your major is correct." Dietrich glanced at Ilsa, who audibly sighed when her husband announced his decision.

Sam Troy rose from the chair to return Dietrich's stern gaze. He knew exactly what was going through the German's mind. "Look, Captain, I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to ask for your help." Troy's voice rose angrily even as he attempted to keep his temper in check.

"Then you are wasting your time, Sergeant," Dietrich responded bitterly.

Troy took a solid step toward the captain. "You may not give a rat's ass about the Allies' part in all of this-"

"Need I remind you that my wife is in this room," Dietrich interrupted.

Troy nodded once in Ilsa's direction as an apology. He looked back at Dietrich, still seething with anger coupled with disillusion. "I'm sorry, but I guess I expected more from you."

"I'm sorry to have disappointed you." Dietrich's reply dripped with sarcasm. He turned back to face the fireplace, as if he were dismissing a subordinate officer.

"These are _your_ men, Captain."

Troy was at Dietrich's back, so close that his breath felt warm in the captain's ear.

Sergeant Troy played his last card. "They fought as hard as you did. They laid their lives on the line, same as you. And they deserve their freedom now just as much as you do. Don't make them wait for some diplomatic envoy to rescue them. It's going to be a long, cold winter, Captain . . . it's your duty to make sure those men are not in Russia when it comes."

Dietrich balled his hands into fists so tightly that his nails dug into his hands. Troy was right, of course. No matter how many excuses he made to justify his refusal to take part in this rescue mission, he could not deny he did owe some allegiance to his fellow soldiers. He felt he had failed his men once; perhaps this was his chance to redeem himself. One question remained.

Without looking at Troy, Dietrich asked, "Why me?"

Aware of the strain Hans was under and uncomfortable with the tension in the room, Ilsa rose to stand next to him. Troy backed away as she gently placed her hands on her husband's shoulders. Hans was so tense Ilsa felt him flinch at her touch. She, too, had wondered why the Allies had expressed so much interest in her husband.

Sam allowed the couple a moment of privacy. "Because we trust you," he calmly answered at last.

Dietrich turned slowly to look at Troy. The sincerity in the man's voice dulled the animosity between the two soldiers, and the old feelings of respect for the American sergeant surfaced through the mistrust and doubt.

"Because _I _trust you," Troy added.

"Then it _was_ you." Dietrich's suspicions that Troy had engineered the entire mission were now confirmed.

"Yeah," Troy replied, nodding his head. A smile played across his face.

"And you told them about Captain Wansee?"

Troy nodded again, somewhat embarrassed. "I used the incident to illustrate my belief that you were the man for the job; they twisted it into blackmail." Troy waited, allowing the German the opportunity to process the new information, then added, "Captain, there are only four men in this world that I would trust with my life. You know who the other three are. You're the fourth."

"You have just entrusted me with a great responsibility," Dietrich responded, nonplused by the sergeant's honesty.

"Then you'll do it?" Troy asked, hoping Dietrich would agree to cooperate.

"I must think about it, Sergeant." Dietrich took his wife's hand in his own. "There are others I have to consider."

Troy smiled at Ilsa. "I understand," he said, retrieving a pen and paper from the breast pocket of his overcoat. Bending over the end table, Sam wrote his name and phone number on the paper. He hesitated before handing the paper to Dietrich. "Is your phone working?"

"At times," Dietrich shrugged.

Troy handed him the paper. "Good. I can be reached at this number. Call me when you've made your decision." Slipping the pen back into his pocket, he remembered the gas-ration coupon. "Here." He withdrew the paper from his pocket and handed it to Dietrich. "Major Armstrong wanted to make sure you got this."

Dietrich examined the coupon with the major's signature. He recognized it as a peace offering and would have refused it except that any additional rations were always welcomed. "Please thank the major for me. This is very much appreciated," he said, graciously accepting the gift.

A shadow of a smile played over Troy's face. _The man does have style_, he thought, as he buttoned up his overcoat. "Don't take too long making your decision, Captain. Every day we hesitate is time wasted." He reached out to shake Frau Dietrich's hand. "It was very nice to meet you. I'll see myself out." Turning to Dietrich, he snapped a formal salute. "Captain."

Hans turned the paper over in his hand, then studied the phone number. When he looked up again, Troy was gone.

"You didn't tell me they wanted you to go on assignment," Ilsa stated, as she began to understand the implications of her husband's impromptu meeting.

Hans sat in the armchair by the fireplace seemingly staring into a void, as he replayed Troy's comments in his mind. "I didn't think it mattered," he finally answered, "I had no intention of going."

"And now?" Ilsa asked, unsure she wanted to hear his answer.

"I don't know." His response was a whisper as he looked up at Ilsa. "I don't want to leave you and Gretchen again; still. . ." Hans hesitated, unwilling to voice an opinion that would upset his wife.

"You feel you owe something to those men," Ilsa finished.

Hans' head dropped a bit as he nodded his assent. He thought the matter had been settled; he had decided not to take part in any foolish adventure the Allies had designed, yet a part of him needed to be useful, to be vindicated.

Ilsa could see this sudden indecision had him completely disoriented. Seated on the edge of the couch, she rested her clasped hands on her knees. "What is it, exactly, that they want you to do?"

Hans rose from his chair and began pacing again. "There is a Russian prisoner of war camp in Lithuania," he began, trying to keep the details in order. "They are, apparently, still holding German POWs-"

"And they want _you _to liberate the camp?" Ilsa asked, astonished at the news of more Russian transgressions.

"Me _and_ Sergeant Troy's little band of marauders," Hans corrected her.

"Who is this Sergeant Troy?" Ilsa innocently asked.

Hans sat on the edge of the couch beside Ilsa. He searched for the right words to describe his association with Troy and his men. "Sergeant Troy, a British sergeant, and two American privates were members of an elite unit known as the Rat Patrol. Troy was their leader." The brief synopsis was the best he could do to describe the ubiquitous group of men. Dietrich smiled at the memory of their frequent encounters. Then the smile faded as quickly as it had come. "They seemed to be everywhere and invariably appeared when I least expected them." He sighed and wearily slumped on the couch. "They were smart, clever and resourceful." He shook his head in disgust. "And they were the bane of my existence." Time had muted his antipathy toward the Rat Patrol, but not his frustration.

Ilsa turned sideways to look at her husband. Bracing her left arm against the back of the couch, she wondered, "You don't care much for the sergeant, do you?"

"I had considerable respect for all of them, but Troy was different." Hans closed his eyes and allowed his head to fall backwards. "Sometimes it seemed as if he were a mirror reflection of myself," he cautiously admitted.

Ilsa had immediately noticed the similarities between her husband and the American. They were both strong-willed and stubborn, brave and honest, shrewd and cunning - and they both knew how to manipulate each other. From her brief encounter with Sergeant Troy, she couldn't imagine two men more similar and, at the same time, more different from each other. She watched Hans get up and restlessly walk around the room.

Nervously smoothing her skirt she asked, "What will happen to you if you are caught?"

"I'll probably be shot as a spy, and Germany will be accused of espionage."

"But the Allies-"

"Will deny any involvement," Hans answered before Ilsa could ask the question. "They'll do anything to avoid provoking the Russians."

She rose to meet him as he neared the couch. "They're using you."

Feeling like a sacrificial lamb, Dietrich had no reply.

"What will you do?" she asked plaintively, as she halted his progress.

"I don't know," Hans answered, almost pleading for his wife to make the decision for him.

Ilsa put her arms around him and drew him close. "I can't tell you what to do." She could feel him nod his head in agreement. "But I don't want to lose you."

Hans wrapped his wife in an intimate embrace. "You won't. I promise," he vowed.

31


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

Martin Mueller rose unnoticed from his perch on the steps as Hauptmann Dietrich and his wife left the sitting room at last. Having overheard the conversation between the American Sergeant and Herr Dietrich, he instantly decided to accompany the captain on his trip to Russia, if Dietrich did, indeed, decide to go.

Martin had steadfastly refused to accept his father's death. Acceptance was for the weak, he had decided, and he was determined to expose the Russian lies about his father - with or without Hauptmann Dietrich's help. But the first thing he needed to do was to determine Herr Hauptmann's itinerary.

Peering around the corner of the long hallway that led to the kitchen, Martin watched as Frau Dietrich poured her husband a cup of coffee. He waited to make sure they would not notice him roaming about the house. When he was confident that they were engaged in conversation, Martin slipped into Dietrich's study.

He rifled through the papers meticulously stacked on the desk. The only thing of significance he found was a telegram from Allied Headquarters addressed to Herr Dietrich. It did not contain any information he did not already know. As he tossed the note aside, he noticed a box lying on the floor. His mother had received a similar carton, full of things supposedly belonging to his father. Grabbing the letter opener, Martin ripped through the tape that sealed the lid.

Without warning, the box flew from his grasp. As the contents scattered across the room he felt an arm wrap around his neck.

Turning the boy around, Dietrich grabbed Martin's shirt by the collar and pressed him against the wall. "What do you think you're doing?" he yelled, not bothering to conceal his rage.

Martin attempted to catch his breath. He could feel his face flush as he found himself face to face with the irate captain. "Nothing," he lied, "I was looking for you."

"What were you doing with the box?"

Martin had to think fast. Assuming the pose of an orphaned child, he decided to play on Dietrich's sympathy. "It looked like the one that was sent to my mother."

The captain pressed him harder against the wall. "That might work with your mother, but it won't work with me," he murmured threateningly.

"Fine, fine." Martin decided to invent a story that Dietrich might accept. "Those medals will get a lot of cigarettes on the black market. I can always sell the cigarettes for a profit."

Ilsa hastily entered the room after hearing loud voices emanating from the hall. "Hans!" she exclaimed, astonished at the scene playing out before her. Fearing that her husband might harm the boy, she tried to pry his hands off the young man. "What is happening here?"

Dietrich reluctantly let the boy go, be he refused to soften, even as Martin began rubbing his chest - where the captain's hands had just forced him against the wall.

"He just started beating me," Martin cried, hoping to enlist Ilsa's aid.

Astonished by the blatant lie, Dietrich grasped the boy with one hand under his jaw and snarled, "You devious-"

Ilsa knew she had to put a stop to the ensuing fight. "Hans, please! Just tell me what happened."

"I found him going through my desk." He abruptly let Martin go and walked back to examine the disheveled papers. The telegram and petrol-ration coupon lay atop the documents on his desk. He suspiciously eyed the boy, who was now hiding behind Ilsa. "I don't know what he was looking for," he added ominously, "but I will find out."

Ilsa noticed the items scattered across the carpet. She slowly bent to pick up one of the silver decorations that belonged to Hans. With her finger, she traced the outline of the Iron Cross that lay in the palm of her hand, the red, black, and white ribbon dangling between her fingers. She noticed the stoic expression on Hans' face that concealed his emotions as he stared at the medallion. She was sorry she had not opened the box before now.

"What did you intend to find here?" she asked Martin as she realized the boy's intentions.

Martin found himself defenseless, with nowhere to turn. Backed into an impossible corner, he decided to fall back on the truth. "I heard you talking about the German POWs," he nervously admitted. Summoning his courage, he stood straight and tall. "I want to go with you, Herr Hauptmann. I want to find my father."

Dietrich stared at Martin in disbelief. "Your father is dead," he stated flatly.

"He is not!" Martin pushed past Ilsa and stood directly in front of Hans. "His body was never found. All we ever received was a box of trinkets and a formal letter of condolence. No explanation . . . nothing!"

Dietrich stared at the boy for a moment, then looked away. The circumstances of his father's reported death were odd, but not unheard of. Although he had not served on the Russian front, he had heard tales of soldiers, even whole battalions, lost in the snow and ice, never to be heard from again. And he knew from his own experience that not every body could be accounted for - there was little that could be done to identify a body burned beyond recognition, or to put a name to a face that no longer was there. He suspected there were hundreds of wrongly marked graves scattered throughout Northern Africa, but he was in no mood to explain the inhumanity of war to a distraught teenager.

Martin thought he detected a crack in Dietrich's armor. "Please, Captain," he pleaded, sincerity replacing his former insolence, "if there's a chance he's still alive, I need to find out for myself."

"No. Absolutely not." Dietrich wasn't sure _he _would take part in the Allies' plan; if he did go, he certainly didn't want a boy he could not trust with him.

"How can you deny me this chance?" Martin asked, incensed at being dismissed so casually.

"What do you think this is? A Hitler Youth outing?" Dietrich stormed away from the boy to put some distance between them, then turned to face Martin. "Do you know what will happen if you are caught?"

"I'll be shot."

Martin's indifferent attitude took Hans by surprise. "That's correct," he answered at last. "And I will not be responsible for sending another young man to his death."

"You're afraid!" Martin screamed, tears of frustration flowing down his cheeks. "You're afraid of failing . . . again!"

"Martin!" Ilsa exclaimed as she took the young man by the arm. If he continued his tirade she wasn't sure she would be able to prevent Hans from harming the boy.

Martin refused to be silenced. "It's true!" He tried but failed to pull his arm from Ilsa's grasp. "He failed as a soldier; he failed as an officer. It's because of men like your husband that Germany lost the war."

Dietrich had heard enough; rage took control of reason. Lifting the slight young man off his feet, Hans pulled Martin away from Ilsa and slammed him into the chair at the desk. "Who do you think you are?" he asked as he leaned over the boy, his hands on the arms of the chair making escape impossible. Not bothering to wait for a reply, Dietrich continued, "Everything is so simple to you . . . everything is black and white, even when you have no idea what you're talking about."

"I know the truth when I see it," Martin angrily spat back at him.

"You know nothing, boy." Dietrich threateningly locked his gaze on Martin's face, which had gone pale despite his attempts to maintain his defiant attitude. "I didn't fight a war for some insane little Austrian corporal."

The passion behind Hans' words stopped Ilsa from interfering.

"I didn't fight to make the world safe for the Nazis," Dietrich continued. "I fought for my country, for a way of life I believed in . . . that I still believe in. I risked my life for my beliefs. Thousands of men barely much older than you did the same. If you think I will stand here and allow some hoodlum like you to accuse me of failing in my duty, you're even more insane than your Führer."

"If you were a loyal German, you wouldn't speak of the Führer in such a manner." Martin maintained his convictions, unable and unwilling to consider that he might be wrong about the captain.

Dietrich gave the chair a little shove, then stood and leaned against the desk, laughing at his frustration. He had faced many people such as Martin in his life. Brainwashed with Nazi propaganda, their morality twisted by years of convoluted rhetoric, most of them had given up their free will to a corrupt political agenda; only a few had dared to ask "why." He tiredly ran his hand across his face. Martin embodied everything the Nazis encouraged in the youth of Germany . . . everything that Hans detested. "Get out," he said quietly. He already had wasted too much energy on a debate he had no hope of winning.

Martin hurriedly darted to the door, but Dietrich's voice stopped him before he was able to leave the room.

"And Martin," Hans added calmly, but with the intensity of a command, "do not let me see your face again until your aunt comes to retrieve you and your family. Do you understand?"

Without responding, Martin disappeared down the hall.

Hans sat heavily in the chair Martin had vacated. He picked up the box that had fallen under the desk and turned it over. Another piece of his life slipped out of the box and fell to the floor; he casually tossed the box on the desk. Dietrich wordlessly stared at the remnants of his career, scattered at his feet.

"Do you want me to help clean this up?" Ilsa asked. She had rarely experienced this side of Hans - the brutal side that made him dangerous and unfamiliar to her. She wondered if these were the characteristics which made a man a good officer and soldier.

Hans shook his head. He only wished to be alone.

Ilsa handed him the Iron Cross she held in her hand. There was a distant look in his eyes when he looked up at her; a coldness in his touch as he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Hans, you know I don't agree with what Martin said," Ilsa stated quietly, covering his hand with hers. "He was wrong. You know that." She waited for a response that didn't come. "He is young and immature."

Dietrich opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ilsa's finger on his lips stopped him from saying anything.

"I am not defending him," she continued. "I'm only saying that he does not have the experience you have. I doubt he's ever been out of Mainz long enough to form his own opinions about anything."

"Are you saying I overreacted?"

"He hurt your pride," Ilsa answered, attempting to explain her husband's behavior to herself. "I believe he got the response he expected."

"So I played right into his hands."

"No. You stood your ground. I think that is what he wanted." Ilsa gave Hans' shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Hans gently laid the medal on his desk and tried to remember how proud he had felt when Field Marshal Rommel had presented the award to him for bravery in battle. It had been a great honor at the time; now, he wasn't sure he could even define bravery. Ilsa had tried to console him, but no amount of reassurance would convince him that what he felt in his heart was true. Perhaps he _was_ afraid of failing, of dying. Perhaps that was why he had hesitated in accepting the Allies' proposal. Perhaps Martin was right.

Martin quietly closed the door to his room. He had convinced his mother he was not feeling well and needed to rest. It was a lie, of course, but his mother was easily deceived. Frantically searching under the bed for the suitcase that held everything he owned, he grasped the worn handle, dragged it out,

and set it on the bed. Opening the valise, he let it fall flat across the comforter. He refused to stay where he wasn't wanted, especially if he ran the risk of confronting Hauptmann Dietrich again. Besides, he thought as he looked around the room, his aunt would be here in a few weeks. He would be carted off to Switzerland and might never have another chance to find his father. If he was going to leave, this would be his last opportunity.

He gathered his personal items from the top of the chest of drawers and dropped them into the open case. The few clothes he owned were draped across a chair next to the bed. Hastily rolling them into a ball, he tossed them into the case. After closing the suitcase, he held it by his right hand, testing the weight. There was still plenty of room; he was going to need it.

Martin slipped on his shabby coat and cap, then surveyed the room to ensure he had left nothing behind. Slowly opening the door, he peered down the hall to see if he could make his escape. His mother and Rosa were downstairs having dinner with their hosts; he would be many kilometers away before anyone would miss him. Martin felt a sudden pang of remorse about leaving his mother and sister without a man to care for them, but he justified his decision by reminding himself he would soon reunite his father with his family and their lives would be whole again.

Cautiously making his way down the stairs, Martin paused to make certain no one was in the formal dining room. Dietrich and his family, as well as his mother and sister were seated around the kitchen table. Creeping into the dining room, he found the drawer where the expensive silver was kept. Silently, he opened the suitcase and stuffed as many of the utensils as would fit into the trunk, bundled it up, and clicked the locks shut. He made one detour to the captain's study and in a matter of minutes he was out of the house and free.

"Rosa," Clara Mueller looked up from her plate to address her daughter. "Why don't you go upstairs to see if Martin wants something to eat." He was a growing boy and needed nourishment to stay healthy. The recent meals she had shared with the Dietrichs were some of the best food she had had in a long time. She wanted to be sure Martin took advantage of their host family's kindness.

"Yes, mama," Rosa half-heartedly agreed. She would much rather have finished her potatoes than check on her brother's appetite. Sighing, she put her fork down and climbed off the chair, determined to find Martin and return to her meal as soon as possible.

"Martin did not look well," Clara explained to Hans and Ilsa. "He was so pale. . ." She feared he was becoming seriously ill.

Hans and Ilsa exchanged a look acknowledging it would be better not to explain Martin's pallor or his sudden illness. They suspected he was avoiding Hans, as he had been told.

"Perhaps I should fix Martin a plate," Ilsa said, concerned for his welfare. She imagined Martin would not want to cross paths with Hans so soon after their confrontation, but despite their strained relationship, she did not wish to see the boy go hungry.

"Why don't you ask him to come down?" Hans asked with little enthusiasm. His offer of a truce was more to make his wife happy than to ease the tension between Martin and himself. He realized Ilsa would not want Martin to go without dinner, and her son's presence at the dinner table also would ease Clara's worry.

Ilsa smiled at Hans, interpreting her husband's concession as a favorable sign. With luck, she thought, the two families might be able to live together in peace for the next four weeks.

"I'll go up myself and check on him," Clara offered, sliding her chair back from the table. She had not completely stood up when Rosa ran back into the kitchen.

"He's not there!" the child exclaimed, the fear returning to her dark eyes.

"What?" Clara asked as she grasped her daughter by her arms. "What do you mean?"

"Martin! He's not in his room," the little girl cried. "All of his things are gone!" She sobbed as she relived the horror of a loved one disappearing without a trace. The soldiers had taken Frau and Herr Scmidt earlier in the war, and three days later the neighbors' house had burned down. No one ever saw them again. She feared the same thing had happened to her brother.

Hans was immediately out of his chair. Again, Ilsa and Hans glanced at each other, their assurance now replaced by panic. Dietrich took the steps two at a time as he hurried up the stairs to Martin's room, Clara following close behind.

The door to the bedroom was wide open. Lifting the bed skirt, Hans found nothing underneath the bed. He glanced around the room, then hastily pulled the drawers out of the bureau. Nothing. There was no trace of Martin or his things.

When he finally looked at Clara, he recognized the terror in her tear-filled eyes. Her hands over her mouth kept her from crying aloud, but her body shook with a sorrow she could not express. Hans gently held her by her shoulders and looked into her grief-stricken face. "Don't worry," he explained, "he can not have gone far. I know some people." Remembering his connection with Sergeant Troy, he suddenly realized how fortuitous his visit had been. "We can send a description of Martin to the check points," Hans continued, praying that Troy could pull some strings with the military government. "The military police will stop him," he reassured Clara with more confidence than he felt.

Clara's expression had not changed and Dietrich was not sure she heard a word he had said. "Do you understand?" Hans asked for clarification.

Clara could barely nod her understanding. Finally, all of the confusion of the past few weeks, coupled with Martin's disappearance, broke her will and she began sobbing uncontrollably. She looked around the room and saw nothing but emptiness. She had lost her husband and now she might lose her only son. Looking up at Hans, her eyes registered nothing but a dull void.

With little else to do but hold her, Hans allowed Clara to rest her head on his shoulder. Her small body shook with her racking sobs; Dietrich thought she felt like one of Gretchen's dolls as she rested limply against him. He felt partially responsible for this tragedy. Explaining his quarrel with Martin would be useless now . . . he doubted Clara would understand and it would only cause her more pain. He needed to find Martin; the first step would be to call Sergeant Troy.

Ilsa silently appeared in the doorway. Her mask of concern concealed more disturbing news. Hans looked at her as he continued to hold Clara, arching his eyebrows in inquiry.

Ilsa anxiously looked from Clara to Hans. Deciding it would be best to reveal what she had discovered, she said, "Your mother's silver is missing."

Clara pulled herself away from Hans and wiped away her tears. "What?" she asked, hoping she had misunderstood the implications of Ilsa's announcement.

"Clara, dear," Ilsa said, holding the woman is if to keep her from falling, "it appears that Martin stole the silver from the dining room."

"Oh my God!" Overwhelmed by shame and embarrassment, Clara closed her eyes and turned away from Hans and Ilsa.

There was no point in venting his anger now, Dietrich thought. If the boy was as resourceful as Hans suspected, the silver would already be getting a good price on the black market. It was time for Dietrich to take action. He gently handed Clara to Ilsa. "I have to make a phone call," he explained to his wife.

He tried to walk calmly downstairs so he would not frighten the girls, who sat quietly in the drawing room. Hesitating in the hall, he realized he should address their questions before continuing with his plan to find Martin. Entering the room, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood across the room from the two children. Dietrich looked directly at Rosa. "I don't want you to worry," he explained carefully. "We will find your brother, Rosa." The fear in the child's eyes was so intense, he was forced to look away. Staring at nothing on the floor, he continued. "I don't know when," he said honestly, "but I guarantee that we will find him." Hans looked back to the child's doleful face. "Do you understand?" he asked, needing to know that the child felt reassured. Whether or not he had made an empty promise was irrelevant. For the moment, it was the only thing he could offer.

Without changing her somber expression, Rosa nodded her head. She had no choice but to accept what the grown-ups were telling her, even if she didn't believe them.

"Good," Hans said, somewhat relieved. He looked at Gretchen, who patiently sat beside her new friend. "Please stay with Rosa, Gretchen," he instructed his daughter, who seemed willing to offer support to the older girl.

"Yes, Papa." Gretchen was not sure what the confusion was about, but she understood Rosa needed her help, and she was happy to comply with her father's request.

"Thank you." Dietrich smiled warmly at his daughter as he marveled at her maturity for one so young. He supposed even his young daughter had grown up faster than she needed to.

Pulling the paper Troy had given him from his shirt pocket, Hans picked up the telephone receiver. Relieved to find a dial tone, he began dialing Troy's number, but stopped as he glanced at his desk. Something was missing. Hanging up the phone, he sorted through the papers he had rearranged on the desk, only to find the petrol coupon missing. Hans immediately indicted Martin with the theft. As he put the equation of Martin, the coupon, and the missing silver together, he broke out in a cold sweat.

Running out the front door, Hans peered at the driveway where he had left the car. His worst fears were realized when he frantically surveyed the grounds and the road that led to the city. His car, along with Martin, were missing.

Pounding his fist against the porch pillar, Hans swore profusely under his breath. Martin had the silver he could sell for cash, and a petrol ration coupon that would insure another full tank of fuel. These new developments were going to make it much harder to find the boy. He instantly regretted promising Rosa that he would find her brother. The odds of catching the young man had dwindled drastically with the new developments. If Hans could not reach Troy immediately, all of his efforts might be in vain.

"Troy!" the voice on the other end of the connection barked tersely. This was the fourth phone call he had received since arriving back at headquarters and he was growing annoyed with the distractions.

Dietrich took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Sergeant," he finally said into the receiver, "this is Hans Dietrich."

Troy smiled; his attitude suddenly became more cordial. "Captain!" he answered brightly, hoping this was the good news he had been waiting for. "Have you made a decision already?"

Dietrich nervously cleared his throat. "Not exactly." Not only must he swallow his pride and ask Troy for a favor, he also feared the sergeant might not want to help if he didn't have the answer the Allies wanted.

"What do you mean 'not exactly?'" Troy's demeanor darkened as he echoed Dietrich's words. He was becoming impatient; he had hoped to present Major Armstrong with the captain's affirmative answer and get on with their assignment. The constant waiting and endless red-tape was grating on Troy's nerves.

Hans could hear Troy's irritability, but he had to deal with Martin's disappearance before he could consider his role in the Allies' mission. "I have a crisis here," he answered calmly, "and I need _your_ help."

Troy carefully considered his next move. No matter what request Dietrich made, it ultimately would ensure the captain's indebtedness to the Allies. It was one way of getting Dietrich to cooperate. On the other hand, he wasn't sure how far his superiors would go in order to gain the German's participation. "What kind of help?" Troy asked.

Hans hesitated; this was the only efficient way to find Clara's son, but he knew Troy would expect something from him in return - something he wasn't entirely sure he could give. However, time and expediency were of the essence and now was not the time for debate.

"We have a displaced family staying with us," Dietrich began. After relaying the relevant parts story, he ended with, "he's taken my car, some silver, and the petrol coupon. I believe he's headed for Russia."

Troy shook his head. "To find his father," he added almost sympathetically.

"I suppose so," Dietrich affirmed Troy's suspicions. "He cannot have gone very far, but the boy is clever," he warned. "If there's a way around the check points, he will find them."

"Don't worry, Captain," Troy smiled, content in his knowledge that the military police had made it nearly impossible for German citizens to travel without the proper authorization. "We'll catch him."

Troy's overly confident demeanor had always bothered Dietrich. Perhaps the American's self-assurance was what made him so successful. He had seen Troy run headlong into any given situation, accomplish his task, and leave without ever looking back. Hans envied the sergeant his ability while deploring his brazen attitude. Now, he reminded himself, it was best to allow Troy latitude in this matter. He gave a full description of Martin Mueller and the stolen car.

Satisfied that the sergeant would take care of the situation, he relaxed a little. Sergeant Troy was capable and intelligent; Hans was certain Martin would eventually be found. He thanked the American, and was about to hang up, when he added, "Sergeant, I am indebted to you." His statement felt more like an admission of helplessness than gratitude.

"I know," Troy replied, fully realizing the captain's dilemma. Thanks to Martin's fit of rebellion, Captain Dietrich now was exactly where he wanted him. He would have to thank the missing kid once he was found.

As he replaced the receiver on the telephone an unexpected chill came over Hans. He slowly lowered himself into his chair as he considered Troy's reply. He could not shake the feeling he just had made a contract with the Devil.

The evening faded into night. Ilsa had persuaded Clara to lie down and was now teaching the girls some form of needlework. Strains of Glenn Miller floated through the house from the radio in the sitting room, but Hans hardly noticed the music. He had made a fire for the girls, but his unheated study was growing colder by the moment. He stared at the walls around him, the events of the past two days repeating in his memory. His life had taken many turns recently, but not necessarily in the direction he would have planned. He felt guilty about Martin's absence, indecisive about the matter with the Allies, and distanced from his daughter. His only anchor was Ilsa and he feared he was only one more burden for her to carry. At the same time, he was angry at Martin for causing so much trouble, angry at the Moenichs for placing this volatile family in his care, and angry at Ilsa for accepting them. Most of all, he was angry at himself for being so powerless to prevent the onslaught of events; he felt like the Dutch boy with his finger in the dike, waiting for the deluge. Frustrated, he abruptly swept the papers off his desk and watched as they fluttered to the floor.

The room that was normally his refuge began to close in on him. His mounting fears, regret, and outrage overwhelmed him; it became imperative that he escape. He had to find something to do, something that he could control or repair without anyone's help, something that would make him useful again. The neglected gazebo sprang to mind, and despite the time of day and the cold weather, he was determined to fix it at once.

The faint sound of breaking glass was the first thing that caught Ilsa's attention. She turned down the radio and listened. The first noise was soon followed by a distant pounding. The children were tucked safely in bed, and Clara, too, was getting some much-needed sleep. Ilsa put down her embroidery and crossed the hall to Hans' study.

The flame in the lamp was barely lit when she walked into the cold room. She adjusted the wick and, picking up the lamp, looked around the study. The disheveled papers lying on the floor were the first indication that something was wrong. Ilsa involuntarily jumped at the crash of more glass, then realized the commotion was coming from outside.

Running to grab her coat, she hurriedly wrapped it around her. Then, taking the dimly lit oil lamp from Hans' study, she cautiously made her way to the veranda, where she noticed a faint light in the

gazebo. Again the pounding resonated in a gust of wind, causing Ilsa to stumble as she hesitantly approached the pavilion.

Holding the lamp higher, she found her husband on his hands and knees prying the frame from a broken pane of glass. Hans worked in his shirt sleeves, oblivious to the wind-blown hair hanging in his eyes. His movements were desperate and unsteady as he worked by the light of a large torch - the picture of a man pushed beyond his limits.

"Hans," she called, trying to make her voice audible over the whistle of the wind through the broken glass. "What are you doing?"

Dietrich continued to pull at the solid piece of wood. Without looking up he answered, "I'm fixing the gazebo."

Ilsa didn't need to ask why this was suddenly so important to him. But she could not allow him to put his physical health at risk in order to assuage his emotions. "Hans, please," she pleaded, "come inside. You don't need to do this now."

Remaining on his knees, he looked up at his wife. "Yes," he stammered, "yes, I do."

Ilsa stepped into the gazebo and pulled her coat tighter. The wind was getting worse and the temperature was dropping quickly. She pushed a strand of hair away from her face. "You'll catch your death out here," she pleaded, unsure if she was making an impression on her husband. He didn't seem to care about anything but fixing the broken glass.

"I'm fine," he argued, taking out his aggression on the stubborn piece of wood. He knew it was ridiculous, but somehow the pounding allowed him to release some of his pent-up anger. "You should go inside." Hans realized his request sounded more like a command, but he did not feel like explaining himself to anyone.

Ilsa, however, refused to be dismissed. Hans stopped hammering when she knelt on the floor in front of him and gently laid her hand on his. He offered no resistance when she took the hammer from him and laid it to the side. The desperation in his eyes terrified her; she saw past the anger to the confusion and torment that lurked just beneath the surface.

"I won't say I understand what you're going through," she said, blinking back tears as she reached out to touch his face. "But please, don't take your frustration out on yourself."

Using his arms for support, Hans placed his hands palm down on the floor. "I don't know what to do," he murmured, allowing his head to hang tiredly from his shoulders. "I've tried," he said, sadly shaking his head. "I've tried to make you and Gretchen safe and happy. I did what I could to help the Muellers, and I want to do my duty to those POWs. . ." He finally looked up at Ilsa. "But it seems that everything I do or touch is crumbling down around me."

Ilsa moved closer to her husband and held him by his arms as he sat back on his knees. The desperation in his eyes was replaced by remorse. "You _have_ made me happy," she strongly declared. "I have never felt more safe than I do now, living _here_, with you and Gretchen." She thought she noticed a flicker of acceptance in his eyes. "This whole episode with Martin is _not_ your fault!"

"But it _is_ my fault, don't you see?" Hans replied. "If I hadn't pressured him-"

"No!" Ilsa interrupted. She was certain of her husband's innocence in the matter; she now had to convince him. "Martin would have left whether or not you had confronted him. He's determined to find his father, and nothing you or I said or did would have changed his mind."

Hans slowly pushed his hair out of his eyes. He was beginning to feel the cold and wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm. Ilsa presented a rational argument, and somewhere inside his soul he knew she was right. "Then why do I feel so horrible?" he asked, shaking from the chill.

Ilsa drew him close to her and embraced him, much the same as she would do for a frightened child. "You're confused," she whispered in his ear as she caressed his head. "And frightened." She pulled herself away and held him at arms' length. "Hans, you have spent your life doing the right thing for your country, for your family, for Gretchen and myself. You have even tried to do what's right for the Muellers."

She glanced away from him for a moment to find the strength to speak her next thoughts, then continued. "If you want to go with Troy and his men, then go." Hans was about to voice his concerns, but Ilsa shook her head unwilling to hear his opinion. "It's time you did what's right for yourself."

Finally. It was decided. Hans felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders. All the while he had needed to hear Ilsa's opinion; he was gratified to find she had voiced the argument he was unable to acknowledge himself.

"Then it's settled." He drew a deep breath and with a sigh of relief, let it go.

Ilsa suddenly wanted to cling to him, to never let him go, to tell him she was wrong. But as she wrapped her arms tightly around him, she nodded her head and bravely replied, "Yes. It's settled."

39


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

Hans was dressed and had made coffee when Ilsa, still in her dressing gown, joined him at the kitchen table. He brought her a cup and she groggily smiled her appreciation. After taking a sip, her smile developed into a grimace. "Oh, Hans!" she complained as she pushed the steaming cup away, trying to eliminate the bitter taste from her mouth.

Hans grimaced. "Too strong?" he asked, realizing that only a bad cup of coffee could elicit such a strong response from Ilsa so early in the morning.

She yawned. "It is beyond 'strong'. . ." She didn't finish as she rose to add a little hot water to the brown liquid in her cup. In better times, she simply would have disposed of the bad coffee and brewed a fresh pot, but rationing limited how extravagant one could be with items that weren't considered essential. She fleetingly thought the Allies would add coffee to the essential food list if they saw her in the morning.

She tried the coffee again and decided a little cream might soften the taste. "Did you drink it this strong in the army?" she asked as her eyes opened wider and she focused on Hans.

Dietrich innocently shrugged. "I had my adjutant make it most of the time."

Ilsa playfully nodded. "That would explain why you don't have an ulcer . . . yet."

Hans laughed at her sarcasm. It was her wit and intelligence that had first attracted him to her; her caring heart made him love her. He thought she was beautiful even as she sat across the table from him, still half-asleep. "You didn't sleep well last night," he said, expressing his concern.

Ilsa continued to stir the thick cream around in her cup. "No," she agreed, "I didn't."

Suspecting the source of her restlessness was the agreement they had reached last night, he reached for her hand across the table. "Do you still want me to do this?"

Now fully awake, Ilsa met his gaze. "No, I don't want you to do this," she answered matter-of-factly. "I don't want you leave, I don't want you to risk your life."

Dietrich let go of her hand and sat back in his chair, confused by what he thought was a complete reversal from their previous decision.

Seeing puzzlement darken his face, Ilsa quickly added, "But what I want is not important right now. I want you to do what is necessary; what you think is right."

Hans could only nod his understanding. He closed his eyes, attempting to gain control of his emotions. He could not go on existing in the purgatory he had created for himself. If Ilsa was strong enough to let him go, he had to be strong enough to leave.

"Did you call Sergeant Troy?" Ilsa's quietly questioned.

Hans sighed. "I tried this morning, but the phone is out again." The call to Sergeant Troy had been the first thing on his agenda; he wanted to make his commitment to the project before he had the opportunity to reconsider his decision.

A faint smile lingered on Ilsa's lips as she laughed under her breath. "God is not making this easy for us, is He?" When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears.

It was almost noon before phone service was restored. Dietrich dialed Troy's number and impatiently waited as the phone rang three, then four times before someone picked up at the other end.

"34th Army HQ," a young female voice brightly answered. _Obviously an American_, Dietrich thought caustically. "I'm trying to reach Sergeant Sam Troy," he answered, lighting a cigarette.

"Who may I say is calling?" The perkiness left her voice, and she became officious.

Hans was distinctly uninterested in playing protocol games with some young woman whose responsibilities probably culminated in fetching coffee for her superiors. He decided to throw the girl a curve. "Hauptmann Hans Dietrich," he replied in his most official, heavily accented German.

There was a slight hesitation on the other end. "Uh . . . okay," she replied at last, unable to make sense of his name but determined not to ask for it again. She asked Dietrich to hold as she went to look for Sergeant Troy.

Hans inhaled deeply on the cigarette as he waited for Troy to come to the phone. The ash glowed red, then died down to a somber gray. Flicking the ash into the ashtray on his desk, he rested the cigarette on the lip. Dietrich grew restless as he considered the irony of waiting for a clerk to find the elusive sergeant. He never had considered this particular sergeant difficult to find. Troy always had appeared in the most unusual places at the most peculiar times. But now that the captain needed him, he was nowhere to be found. Finally, the receiver rattled on the other end.

"Troy here," the American spoke into the phone, happy to have been drawn away from another useless meeting.

"It's Dietrich," Hans replied authoritatively.

Troy's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Captain?" He had not expected to hear from Dietrich so soon after their conversation the day before. "There's still no news about the kid. I doubt-"

Dietrich interrupted. "Yes, thank you, Sergeant," he responded politely, "but I'm not calling about Martin." His slight hesitation was an exaggerated moment in time before he spoke again. "I'm calling about the mission you and Major Armstrong have proposed."

Troy straightened immediately. "What's your answer, Captain?"

"I'll do it." It was done. His commitment had been made and there was no going back.

Troy's mood brightened significantly. "Great!" His exclamation attracted the attention of everyone in the room. "I'll let Major Armstrong know. We'll get started right away."

"Just a moment, Sergeant," Dietrich warned. "There are a few things we need to clarify before we start making plans to work together."

Troy knew the captain would have some misgivings concerning the chain-of-command in such an undertaking. They both had fought enough battles to know that there could be only one leader in any unit. Although he continued to address Herr Hauptmann as "Captain," he realized Dietrich no longer carried an official military title, which could lead to questions of authority. But whatever questions Dietrich had, Troy was certain they could be worked out.

"We'll address any problems you have with Major Armstrong," Troy assured him. "Can you make a meeting today?"

Dietrich was slightly taken aback by the sergeant's eagerness. He probably could make a meeting in the afternoon, but his lack of transportation presented a major hurdle. Besides, he wanted to handle these arrangements on his terms. "Today is out of the question."

"Tomorrow then?" Troy asked, feeling a tug-of-war developing.

"You forget, I have no car."

"We'll send one for you," Troy insisted.

"Very well. Tomorrow then," Dietrich consented to the appointment. "What time?"

Troy checked his watch and hoped he could catch the major before he went for lunch. "I'll let you know as soon as I speak with the major. Can I call you later?"

"Yes, but not after five." Dietrich answered, attempting to gain some control of the situation. He refused to be subjugated to every Allied whim.

"I'll get back to you within the hour," Troy promised as he set the receiver in the cradle. The sergeant considered his conversation, suddenly becoming apprehensive about the inherent problems that might arise from their working together. Dietrich was a proud man, so much so that Troy was certain he would balk at taking orders from American officers.

Yet, he reminded himself, Hauptmann Dietrich was a professional, and he would not allow his pride to affect a decision that would put their lives in jeopardy. Sighing, Troy rolled his eyes heavenward and prayed he was right.

Major Armstrong replaced the receiver in the cradle, then took a moment to consider his next move. True to his word, Troy had been successful in enlisting Dietrich's help, but Armstrong was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the knowledge that he had not been completely candid with either the captain or Troy. Sending men into a potentially deadly situation with incomplete information was, in his opinion, simply wrong.

Picking up the phone, he dialed Colonel Baird's extension; at least he would ease his conscience if he expressed his misgivings to his commanding officer.

"Baird," a gruff voice answered after the second ring.

"It's Armstrong," the major identified himself, then continued, "Troy did it. Dietrich will be here tomorrow at 13:00 hours to discuss the details."

"Good," Colonel Baird replied casually. "Let me know when the plans are finalized." A moment of silence ensued. "Is there anything else, Major?" he asked impatiently.

Major Armstrong knew this was his opportunity to voice his objections. Taking a deep breath, he steeled his nerves and replied, "I don't like this, Colonel."

"Don't like what, Major?" the colonel tersely asked, fully aware of the major's diffidence.

"We're sending some of our best soldiers and a German citizen into an explosive situation," Armstrong stated strongly. "They should know what they're getting into."

"They know enough to get the job done," Baird explained, barely disguising his reluctance to discuss the matter. "Besides, if Dietrich knew the real reason behind this little 'jailbreak'. . ." His voice trailed off; Baird did not need to finish his sentence.

_He'd tell us all where to go_, Armstrong thought, as he drummed his fingers on his desk. "Yes, sir," he finally answered, still unhappy with the entire situation. "I'll let you know what we decide tomorrow."

"Fine," Baird responded.

The click on the other end of the line indicated their conversation was finished. The real work was yet to be done. Yet Armstrong could not shake the feeling that they were headed for disaster.

Ilsa wasn't sure how long she stood at the French doors that led to the terrace, gazing across the lawn. She had watched Hans carrying tools and material back and forth between the garage and the gazebo, determined to finish the job he had begun the night before. The weather was warmer today, and Ilsa was glad to see Hans was wearing a coat and gloves. Although she did not understand why the gazebo suddenly was so important to him, she was happy he was finally motivated to do something constructive.

But the fact that his motivation stemmed from his decision to help the Allies disturbed her. Ilsa knew her husband would thrive on the danger. Hans would easily slip back into the military lifestyle - his sense of purpose defined by his usefulness in a perilous situation.

Hans had been born into a family whose military roots went back many generations. His grandfather had fought under Bismarck, his father under Wilhem II, but Hans had had the misfortune to serve a madman. His sense of duty and honor had been ingrained into him from an early age. His love of his country came naturally to him, like a sixth sense that he was no longer conscious of. He had fought bravely because of it. Now she suspected that Hans, like many other German soldiers, felt betrayed by the men who had dishonored his loyalty by committing acts of brutality that ultimately reflected on him.

Ilsa did not want to believe that the reports of German cruelty were true. Surely no one in a position of power could have condoned such acts of violence against innocent men, women, and children.

Yet the evidence mounted daily, and she feared the truth would forever tarnish Germany in the eyes of the world.

A small hand slipped into Ilsa's, and she looked down to find Gretchen standing at her side. Picking the child up, she could not help wondering what sort of future her daughter faced. She was certain of one thing - nothing would ever be the same for the children who had survived the war, in her country or any other.

Wrapping her small arms around her Ilsa's neck, Gretchen gave her a warm hug. Then, twisting in her mother's arms, she pointed to the gazebo. "What is Papa doing?" she chirped.

Staring in the direction of Gretchen's finger, Ilsa absently moved her daughter's hand down to her side. "He's making things right," she answered quietly.

Seated at the kitchen table, Hans had finished his lunch of bread, cheese, and canned tomatoes. He was busy overseeing Gretchen's lunch when a knock at the front door distracted him. He looked up apprehensively at Ilsa, who stood near the sink.

"I'll get it," she offered, and would have untied her apron but for Hans' hand stopping her.

"No," he said, as he stood near her. "Stay here, I'll get it." He suspected it was the car that would take him to Berlin, and he did not want Ilsa to have any more contact with these people than she had had already. He knew he was being overprotective, but he felt as if his family would somehow be tainted by association with his collaborators.

Hans opened the door and found a British soldier who didn't look much older than Martin.

The young corporal stood at attention, head erect, staring past Dietrich. "I've been sent by headquarters to escort you to Berlin, sir."

"Yes," Dietrich replied, unsure what to do about the boy's severe military bearing. "At ease, Corporal, uh. . ." He searched the corporal's uniform for a name, "Rowland." Before he could finish his sentence, Corporal Rowland had assumed the official stance of a soldier at rest. Hans rarely had required such deportment from his men; receiving such respect from a man who had been his enemy seemed strange and familiar at the same time.

Dietrich stepped aside and asked the corporal to enter. The boy did so wordlessly, but the captain caught his gaze moving as he took in the foyer and what little he could see of the sitting room. "You may sit in there and wait," Hans said, indicating the sitting room.

The corporal immediately regained his composure and replied sharply, "No, thank you, sir."

Dietrich shrugged his eyebrows and walked away. "I didn't think you would," he murmured in amusement.

Dietrich relaxed in the back of the military staff car. Despite the British flags that fluttered on each front fender, he was enjoying the ride. It was a beautiful, crisp Saturday in autumn. He closed his eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun's rays streaming through the car window. The cold, damp weather was gone, and he was feeling better - both physically and emotionally - than he had in a long time. He knew this spell of warm weather wouldn't last long as fall faded into winter, and he felt compelled to take advantage of the more temperate climate.

Dietrich's thoughts turned to the job before him. He could not deny the anticipation was exciting. He found it a challenge, plotting strategy, a thrill to execute a well-laid-out plan, and a source of pride and accomplishment when a mission came to a triumphant end. A combination of intelligence, strength, and composure was needed to accomplish the many intricate tasks that would culminate in a successful mission. Every seemingly spontaneous movement was determined by what came before and what would come after; every individual action dependent on a reaction, until victory was realized.

Still, hand-in-hand with the expectation of victory came the chance of defeat. No matter how many triumphs he could claim, there were always losses he could not forget. The reality that he might

never return from this assignment made him even more reluctant to leave his family and house-guests behind. And added to that, the military police had been unable to locate Martin. He felt as if he was leaving a job unfinished. It would be unfair to leave Ilsa alone with a grieving mother - if Martin were never found.

He had finally acknowledged that Clara and Rosa were not the burden he had expected. In fact, he knew Ilsa and Gretchen enjoyed their company. He even could feel some sympathy for Martin - a desperate boy, trying to act like a man, with no idea what was expected of him. Time had allowed Hans to reassess his feelings for Martin, making it easy for him to forgive the boy and ease his conscience as well. Ilsa thought the young man would have left no matter what anyone said or did, but Dietrich felt he was the catalyst in a series of events that had left Clara Mueller devastated and her young son alone in a man's world. He made a mental note to check on the progress of the efforts to find Martin at Allied Headquarters. Any tidbit of information might calm Clara's fears and keep her hopes alive.

Dietrich became aware of the groups of displaced residents on the roads leading from Berlin, most seeking food and provisions in the country. As they came closer to the city, the clusters of people became more dense and more pathetic. Families with children pushed wooden carts that carried the last of their possessions, hoping to trade their treasures for what was available from the farming community. Women carrying infants in their arms with nothing to offer would simply beg for food and supplies. Overwhelmed with sadness, he could not meet the eyes of his impoverished countrymen as the car slowly made its way into Berlin.

Corporal Rowland glanced into his rearview mirror to take a closer look at his passenger. The captain had grown pale, and he was resting his head in his hand propped on the arm rest. He only could imagine what the man was feeling. "It's awful, isn't it, sir?"

Dietrich had not anticipated any conversation from the young corporal, and the sudden familiarity, and the obvious concern, took him by surprise. He looked up, meeting the corporal's eyes in the mirror. He had expected to find disgust in the reflection, but instead he found caring. "Yes," Hans agreed, the words sticking in his throat, "It is."

Hans had never been more relieved to reach Berlin than he was at that moment. Opening the door for his passenger, Corporal Rowland snapped a salute as the captain exited the car. Hans felt a sudden affinity with the British corporal and, for the first time in five months, he stopped and returned the honor.

Hurrying up the steps of the bank building, the captain attempted to ignore the sights, sounds, and smells of the devastation that surrounded him. He felt like a haunted man trying to escape a horrific nightmare as he darted into the first entrance he found. Inside, it struck Dietrich as extraordinary that he felt safe in an environment he should have abhorred. He immediately chastised himself for being so weak that he could not face the reality outside the door. He had been witness to the countless horrors of war, but the destruction and destitution had never felt so personal before today.

Taking a deep breath, Hans reminded himself of his purpose for being at Allied Headquarters. He was there to assist in the effort to bring German men home - to put his talents to use the best way he knew how and to help in any way he could.

Dietrich took a moment to gaze around the near-empty building. A few servicemen were gathered around a coffee urn, another was reading an American newspaper, while others were simply passing time until the end of their shift. He supposed that the lack of activity reflected the allotment of weekend passes. He walked slowly to the reception desk, anticipating another altercation with Corporal Harris, but the corporal's attitude was noticeably different this time. Hans was about to ask for Major Armstrong again, but was stopped before he could get the words out.

Recognizing the visitor from his previous visit, the burly corporal immediately stood at attention and saluted the captain. "Yes, sir!" he called out, waiting for a salute in return. When none came, he suspected the captain was too astonished to respond. In an entirely business-like manner, Harris picked up the phone, as he spoke to Dietrich, saying, "I'll let the major know you're here."

Dietrich did not know whether to be insulted or honored. He suspected Harris and Rowland were acting on an order from Major Armstrong to show the captain the respect that they had been told was his due. He hoped his suspicions were unfounded, for he had no need of false displays of esteem. Although

Rowland probably had acted out of a sense of military decorum, Harris' new disposition was so contrary to the one he had displayed during their previous encounter that the German feared his assumption was correct.

Nevertheless, Hans thanked the corporal and patiently waited for an escort. Footsteps echoed along the marble hall on the floor above him, and Dietrich looked up to catch a glimpse of Major Armstrong, hurrying to the staircase.

Stopping just short of the stairs, Armstrong leaned over the banister and waved the captain in the direction of the steps. "Come on up." Armstrong did not have to speak loudly as his voice resonated throughout the near-empty building.

The major met Dietrich at the top of the stairs, shook his hand, and clasped him on the back. "I can't tell you how much we appreciate your assistance in this matter," he said reassuringly.

Uncomfortable with the American's unwanted demonstration of friendship, Dietrich took a slight step away from the officer, increasing the distance between them. Dietrich was surprised when they passed the major's office and continued on to what appeared to be a large conference room.

Armstrong held the door open for him; as Dietrich entered the room he quietly told the major, "I'm not doing this for you." He did not want his help mistaken for a sign of camaraderie.

The hum of quiet conversation abruptly stopped as Dietrich entered the room. The lighting was subdued, faces appearing half in shadow and half in light. There were two men Hans did not know. The first, a tall, lean British officer, was introduced as Captain Worthington; the other, shorter man as the captain's assistant, Lieutenant Shaw.

Dietrich politely shook hands with the two men as Major Armstrong continued, "And you know Sergeant Troy and his men."

Dietrich turned slowly to face Troy. It was difficult to recognize any of them in the darkened room, especially without their distinctive head gear. They seemed out of place in their regulation uniforms. He nodded once at Troy, in a gesture of recognition, then held out his hand to the tall, dark-haired British sergeant to Troy's left. "Sergeant Moffitt," he said simply, noting the smile he received in return. "Private . . ." Hans recognized the wire-rimmed glasses and the disheveled blond hair, but found it difficult to recall the young man's name.

"Hitchcock." Hitch's eyes sparkled with amusement as he shook Dietrich's hand. "Mark Hitchcock." He turned sideways to display the rank stripes on his arm. "And it's Corporal now," he added affably.

Dietrich nodded and smiled in return. "I should have known." Finally he shook hands with the last of Troy's men. "You must also be a corporal now, correct?"

"Yes, sir," Tully drawled, and announced proudly, "Corporal Tully Pettigrew." As they shook hands, Tully winked at the captain and added as an aside, "but it was only for the extra money."

Dietrich suppressed a small laugh. He wasn't sure if he thought Tully's remark amusing, or if he found this whole situation laughably ironic. For more than two years the Rat Patrol and he had played a game of cat-and-mouse, pursuing each other across the desert sands. Now he was shaking hands and addressing these men as partners, rather than enemies. Something inside him stirred, but Hans realized he could not dwell on the past - this mission was the future.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to Major Armstrong. "Shall we get started?" he asked, eager to learn the details of his assignment.

Major Armstrong unrolled a map and some other documents on the large table occupying the middle of the room while someone switched on a ceiling light fixture. The seven men gathered around the table, Dietrich and Troy on either side of Major Armstrong, and the rest dispersed evenly on the remaining sides of the map.

"The camp is rather small," Armstrong explained, as his finger traced the perimeter of the wall surrounding the interior barracks and administrative buildings. "It's a little larger than the size of a football field," he explained, "about one-hundred yards long by close to seventy-five yards wide." The major looked at Dietrich. "Intelligence thinks there may be close to 250 men being held there."

Hans tried not to let his astonishment show as his mind began to evaluate the most efficient method of transporting the men home. Any form of land transport was out of the question. "We'll have to get them out by sea," he suggested, while the rest of the men nodded in agreement.

"Exactly," the major agreed. He liked the way the captain's mind worked. Dietrich's thought processes were calculating and decisive; Armstrong could feel the certainty that Captain Dietrich projected. "Allied intelligence has reported that the German POWs are given manual tasks to perform, which includes loading and unloading Russian military ships in the harbor. The ships appear to be on a four-day schedule. Three different ships rotate through the harbor every fourth day. The prisoners are escorted out of the barracks by a platoon of guards to unload the ships, which usually takes a few hours, and then they are taken back to the camp."

"What's on those ships?" Troy asked, wondering if the cargo was important enough to worry about.

"Intelligence isn't sure," the major answered. "They think the freight appears to be mostly food, clothing and medical supplies."

"That's quite a bit of supplies," Moffitt suggested, "especially if the ships put into harbor every four days."

"Yes," Armstrong agreed, fearing that the intelligence reports had not supplied him with enough information. "But we can't be concerned with what the Russians are stockpiling in Lithuania," he reminded the men. "Our mission is to get those POWs out of there with as little loss of life as possible."

"Just as long as y'all include my life in that possibility," Tully spoke up from the end of the table.

The rest of the men laughed at Pettigrew's request, but Dietrich's concentration remained focused on the architectural rendering of the Russian camp. "Major," he spoke quietly, once again causing the others in the room to fall silent, "why not simply bomb the camp from the air, avoiding the prisoner barracks?"

"Good question," Major Armstrong replied as he pulled out a more detailed map of the inner group of buildings. "The Russians must've expected the Germans to attempt something like that." He pointed to a group of huts placed in a pattern of concentric rings around a central building. "So they interspersed the POW huts with Russian barracks."

"So, if the Germans bombed the camp they'd kill their own men," Hitch voiced the thought that was running through every mind gathered around the table.

"Which is why one of you is going to have to infiltrate the camp," the major continued, glancing at Dietrich. "The plan is to alert the German POWs to the rescue. Then, as the men are escorted to the docks, Sergeant Troy and his men will be responsible for getting them on our own ship, which will be docked in the harbor."

"What about the Russian ships?" Captain Worthington, wondered aloud.

"We will arrange for an Allied ship to detain the Russians before they reach the port," Armstrong assured him. "Which only leaves a small window of time before the Russians figure something's gone wrong when their boat doesn't show up."

"And I assume I am the one who will break into the camp," Dietrich stated without betraying his emotions.

Armstrong hesitated a moment, recognizing that the captain would have to assume the most dangerous role. "That's the idea," he replied sympathetically.

Hans straightened himself after being hunched over the table as every eye in the room followed his movement. He seemed to be searching for something inside himself . . . the part of him that had guided his path in every battle and every skirmish in which he had ever taken part . . . the bravery he thought he had lost.  
>"Well, when do we begin?" he asked.<p>

"A Russian boat just docked yesterday," the major instructed the group, "which means another one won't show up until. . ." Armstrong paused to figure out the time schedule. "This is Saturday. The next delivery won't be until Monday, and there will be another one on Friday."

"We won't have time to make the Monday rendezvous," Troy pointed out.

"No," the major agreed. "So we're shooting for Friday. That will give you enough time to drive to your destination-"

"Drive?" Moffitt spoke up, questioning the advisability of driving through northern Germany and Poland in potentially bad weather. "Wouldn't it be easier to airlift us in there, sir? We can get back on the ship with the POWs."

"We can't chance all of you being detected by the Russians," Armstrong explained. "If they pick you up on radar, this whole project will go down the toilet . . . and our government will have a great deal of explaining to do." He looked gravely at the five men who were being sent into certain peril. "I'd like to get started tomorrow if possible. That will give you enough time to make the trip, and a couple of extra days to survey the terrain."

Everyone but Dietrich nodded and murmured their consent. "Tomorrow is Sunday," the captain stated definitively. "I shall be spending the day with my family. Monday will be soon enough." He had no desire to spend any more time with the Rat Patrol than was absolutely necessary, and he had an inexplicable need to attend mass.

"Captain!" Worthington objected. "I understand your desire to stay at home an extra day, but time is of the essence!"

Hans thought he detected a note of condescension. "It will take us two days to drive to Lithuania," he replied, gazing at Worthington with calm confidence. "If we leave Monday morning, we can be there by Tuesday evening-"

"That will give us Wednesday for reconnaissance, Thursday for the captain to infiltrate the camp, and Friday to make the break," Troy interrupted. "The captain's right. The less time we spend there, the better our chances are of going undetected."

Troy thought he detected a hint of amazement on Dietrich's face. Suspecting that the captain had not expected such unconditional support from him and his men, he threw Dietrich a knowing look. "We're all in this together, Captain," he assured.

Major Armstrong thought about challenging Troy's timetable, but chose not to. The Rat Patrol had been the army's most capable unit in the North African campaign when it came to these hit-and-run missions. The fact that Troy and Dietrich had decided on some form of cooperation told him to leave well enough alone.

"Very well," the major announced. "Monday it is." He looked at Dietrich on his right and then Troy on his left. "I'll leave it to you gentlemen to establish a time schedule and to requisition the supplies you'll need." He glanced around the room at the rest of the group. "Are there any questions?" Barely waiting for an answer, he attempted to conclude the meeting. "Very well, then-"

"One moment, Major," Dietrich's commanding voice stopped everyone in the room. "I need to know my official status in all of this."

Major Armstrong had been anticipating this moment all afternoon. He decided to address the captain's concern in private. "If you'll excuse us, gentleman," he said, dismissing the others.

Captain Worthington and Lieutenant Shaw took their cue, saluting Major Armstrong before leaving the room. The members of the Rat Patrol also were about to leave, when Armstrong called out, "Sergeant Troy, please stay."

Moffitt, Hitch, and Tully glanced from Troy to Armstrong, wondering what the secrecy was all about, but left the room as they had been instructed.

When the three men were alone, Major Armstrong asked Dietrich and Troy to sit in the chairs that had been pulled away from the table. Armstrong began to pace the room, considering how to phrase what he had to say in order not to insult the captain. He had never claimed to have any diplomatic skills, and now was not the time to start developing them.

"Captain," he cautiously started, "I'm not going to pussyfoot around here."

A quizzical look crossed Dietrich's face. "'Pussy foot'?" he asked. Just when he thought he had heard every English idiom, a new one always seemed to crop up and surprise him. Whatever it meant, he was sure it wasn't good news.

"It means he's going to be brutally honest," Troy explained, positive he was going to be uncomfortable with what came next.

"I see," Dietrich responded. He already knew how this scenario was going to play out, and he momentarily considered saving them from the tension that already permeated the room by answering his

own questions. But the vindictive side of Hauptmann Hans Dietrich enjoyed watching the major squirm. If they were going to treat him as nothing other than a German civilian, he wasn't going to make it easy for them. "Please continue, Major," he asked, hoping to appear naïve.

The major cleared his throat and started to pace again. "This is an Allied operation," he began carefully, but gained new courage with every word. "I'm afraid you'll have to defer to Sergeant Troy's judgment in anything that affects this mission." Having said his piece, the major waited for the expected tirade from Captain Dietrich. The only response he received was silence. Deafening silence.

Troy shifted in his chair. He had seen this stand off coming. Although he would not argue with Major Armstrong, he could understand Dietrich's apprehension. The captain was used to being in a position of authority. His rank - honorary or not - deserved respect. His command experience alone made him invaluable. It was only a simple twist of fate which had placed him on the losing side of a war he still was fighting in his soul. Troy wouldn't blame him if he walked out.

Contrary to Troy's prediction, Dietrich remained seated. There seemed to be a calm acceptance, an amenable compliance, about him. Either the captain had become practiced in disguising his anger, or he had completely lost the fire that had made him such a formidable opponent. Troy wondered if the two years in a prisoner-of-war camp had made such a distinct change in the man.

Dietrich sighed in resignation. "Then I am to take my orders from Sergeant Troy."

"Yes," Armstrong answered, without apology. "We want you to participate in this mission in an advisory capacity." Feeling that he had gained the upper hand over the sullen captain, he continued without hesitation. "You may make suggestions to Sergeant Troy, but the final decision must be his."

Dietrich stared at the floor for a moment, then folded his hands in his lap. He supposed he was in no position to challenge the major's authority. Technically, he was a civilian no matter what title they insisted on bestowing on him. Still, he had been asked on this mission because of his shared history with the Rat Patrol, and because he was German and the Allies needed him. Bolstered by his re-evaluation of the situation, Dietrich called upon what was left of his pride as a German officer, lifted his head and sat up a little straighter.

Troy thought he could detect a spark of the commander he had engaged many times in desert battles. He could see it in the captain's bearing, even as he learned of his relegation to a secondary role.

Dietrich closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them, he was staring directly at the major, who was perched on the edge of the conference table. "Then I shall have no command over the German POWs." His calm manner suggested his statement was an indictment rather than a question; his glare was an accusation.

"Those men are yours." Armstrong waved his hand, conceding the point. Fortunately, he already had made provisions for this dilemma. He suspected the time had come to make his only concession to the German. "You may use your rank in an official capacity, for the time being." He glanced at Dietrich, whose face remained unreadable. "But no matter who salutes who, the point of this mission is to get those men out of there. Understood?"

Dietrich calmly rose from his chair, seemingly satisfied with the major's offer. "I just wanted to be certain where I stood, Major. Nothing personal." He nodded over his shoulder to Troy who remained seated. "Sergeant," he said excusing himself. "I'll expect to hear from you about our timetable." Looking back to the major, he asked, "If you'll have the car brought around. . ."

"Certainly," the major answered curtly as he reached for the phone and asked for the captain's driver.

Satisfied that the remainder of the arrangements would be handled by the Americans, Dietrich shook hands with the major and left the room.

After the door had closed behind the captain, Armstrong looked at Troy. "He planned that, didn't he?" he asked, still puzzled by their conversation.

Troy smiled knowingly. "Yes, sir," he replied, barely able to contain his amusement, "I think he did."

Troy trotted after Dietrich, reaching him just in time to prevent the captain from getting into his car. "Just what the hell was that all about?" Troy asked, grabbing the doorframe.

"Sergeant," Dietrich explained in mock surprise, "you know as well as I that no assignment can be completed without an understanding of the chain of command." He watched Troy's eyes narrow as the man attempted to read between the lines.

"Was all of that just to recoup your military title?" Troy asked.

Dietrich closed the car door and stood toe-to-toe with Troy on the sidewalk. "'All of that' was to make sure 250 German soldiers would make it home alive," he spoke as if his motives were self-evident. "You are correct, Sergeant Troy, I don't give a 'rat's ass' about the Allies," he spat, recalling the sergeant's vulgarism, "but I do care about those POWs." Dietrich became more agitated as he tired of explaining himself. "You would have great difficulty trying to organize a large group of Germans who probably speak only minimal English," he continued, "and I seriously doubt you could convince them that an American was there to liberate them from a Russian POW camp."

Troy backed away from Dietrich. He almost was ashamed of accusing the captain of any self-serving motives. "I apologize, Captain," he said earnestly.

Dietrich glanced at the devastation that surrounded them and suddenly found himself exhausted. "Apology accepted, Sergeant," he replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He opened the door and was about to get in the car when he remembered Martin Mueller. He hastily turned around to stop Troy before the sergeant disappeared back inside Headquarters. "Sergeant!"

Troy turned around and inclined his head in response.

"Any news about the Mueller boy?"

Troy walked back to the waiting car. "Nothing yet," he replied, wishing he had better news. "I'll do some checking and give you a call later."

Dietrich closed his tired eyes and nodded. The joint mission had not yet begun and he was already feeling the strain. "Thank you, Sergeant," he finally replied. Although disappointed that he had no encouraging news for Frau Mueller, he did appreciate Troy's help. "Call me anytime," he offered as a gesture of truce. He climbed into the car.

Troy recognized Dietrich's compromise as the sign of trust it was meant to be. "Yes, sir," he replied to no one in particular, as the car's tail-lights disappeared around the corner.

50


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

It was already dark outside when Ilsa checked the clock in the kitchen. The hour read 6:00 p.m. and, uncertain what time Hans would be home, she decided to wait until he arrived to fix dinner. Slipping on a sweater, she walked to the pantry and studied the shelves lined with canned vegetables. Although she was having difficulty inventing new ways of fixing tomatoes and cucumbers, she thanked God for the surplus of food left from the summer. They had more than enough potatoes and cabbage, and she was able to stretch their meat rations to be sure they had some form of protein at least once a day.

Dr. Bauer had encouraged Hans to gain weight in order to remain healthy, but there was little that could be accomplished on a diet of vegetables, bread, and cheese. Even with the additional rations the Mueller's presence contributed to the household, the food supply for five people would barely stretch from week to week.

Carrying the assorted jars of vegetables into the kitchen, Ilsa looked up as Clara walked in with the newspaper Hans had picked up in Berlin. "What are you reading?" she asked as she reached into the refrigerator for the leftover pork from the day before.

"They are trying our leaders for 'war crimes,'" Clara replied, handing the paper to Ilsa. Her voice was tinged with skepticism.

Ilsa read the headlines and guessed it was the first time Frau Mueller had heard the accusations that, until now, had been only rumors. "Yes," she answered despondently. "It is very difficult to believe."

"I don't believe it!" Clara responded defensively, as if Ilsa were completely mistaken. "Goering, Hess, von Ribbentrop, Doenitz . . . they are all German heroes!"

"I suppose they're the only ones the Allies could catch," Ilsa replied bitterly, folding the paper and handing it back to Clara. The other "heroes" had all committed suicide or disappeared, which in Ilsa's eyes confirmed their guilt.

"This is all Allied propaganda; American lies," Clara complained angrily. "Those men were only doing their duty-"

"Those men were murdering innocent women and children," Ilsa argued. "They were killing civilians, Clara!" As far as she was concerned, there was no excuse for the barbarities these men had committed in the name of duty. "What do you think happened to all the Jews?" she asked, confounded by Clara's naïveté.

"I heard they were sent to work camps . . . to keep them safe until after the war." Even as she spoke, Clara could hear the hypocrisy of her own words. Still, she refused to accept the truth, even as she held it in her hands.

"They were sent to their deaths," Ilsa continued quietly, finding it difficult to discuss the matter.

"The soldiers were only following orders," Clara continued less vehemently, beginning to doubt her convictions. Still, she continued to recite the accepted rhetoric of the day. "They didn't have a choice."

Ilsa shook her head. "They did have a choice, Clara. They just chose badly . . . as we all did," she finished, acutely aware of the guilt every German would have to share in the atrocity.

Sunday morning began in a glorious burst of sunshine. The bare tree limbs, having dropped their leaves to blanket the ground in shades of green, gold, and red, reflected the warm, soothing rays of golden light over the countryside.

Hans stood impatiently at the front door, one hand on the doorknob and the other in the pocket of his wool overcoat. Pulling his hand out of the pocket, he glanced at his watch. "Ilsa," he called up the stairs, "we must be going." Walking to church was going to take some time, and if they didn't leave soon, they were certain to be late.

Ilsa appeared at the top of the stairs. "I have to find Gretchen's coat," she explained breathlessly, while slipping on her shoes. "Wait outside," she suggested, "we'll be down in a few minutes."

Sighing, Dietrich rolled his eyes and stepped out on the front porch. Being late was one more thing he had to accept about civilian life. Military life made few exceptions for deviations from schedules, but two-and-a-half years of battle had been a harsh lesson in flexibility. Nothing was written in stone when one faced a resourceful enemy. Thoughts of "the enemy" inevitably led to the Rat Patrol and their impending venture.

Hans sat on the first step of the porch and stared into space, his mind already planning the agenda for the day before him, and wondering what the next few days would bring. Resting his elbows on his knees, he brought his hands together. Steepling his index fingers, he brought them to his lips in contemplation.

He could not help laughing lightly under his breath. It was pure insanity to think he and the Rat Patrol would be able to work together. The Americans were impulsive and undisciplined; he was methodical and structured. They were used to working as a unit, accomplishing their goals quickly and decisively; he was used to commanding units, formulating plans and making decisions for everyone else. They worked in broad strokes across a large canvas; he paid attention to every minute detail and submersed himself in strategy. Dietrich supposed he could consider this adventure a learning process, but he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of on-the-job training.

As the door opened behind him, Hans lithely rose from the step. Turning around, he found his wife and daughter watching him.

"Ready?" Ilsa asked, as if he were the one who had kept them waiting.

Hans paused for a moment. Ilsa looked handsome in the winter coat he had bought for her five years ago; luckily, it had not yet begun to betray its age. A small brown hat, which matched the coat, sat back on her head; altogether, her appearance reminded him of the life they had shared many years ago.

Gretchen tugged at the bonnet tied under her chin. Yellow curls poked out in little clouds of color, forming a striking contrast to her dark red outfit. "I don't like this ribbon," she complained, squinting into the sun as she looked up at her father.

Bending over, Hans pulled her hand away from the ribbon and cupped her chin in his hand. "Leave it be," he told her, then stood back to admire the two women in his life. "You look beautiful." Gretchen giggled at the compliment; the smile on Ilsa's face caused time to disappear. Silently, he gazed at the two of them, standing on the porch bathed in sunshine. Closing his eyes, he committed the scene to memory.

A sudden chill crept over Hans as he dipped his fingertips into the holy water and made the sign of the cross. It wasn't the first time he had experienced this odd sensation; it had happened every time he had gone to church during the past few months. He could have blamed it on the cold stone church or the frigid water, but he suspected it was due to a feeling so foreign he dared not believe it - that of hypocrisy.

It had seemed so black and white during his tenure in North Africa. He was fighting for his country; whatever he had to do was simply a means to an end. He had killed in self-defense, for the law of battle was kill or be killed. But he had done his best not to include innocent civilians; still, they occasionally had been caught in a crossfire or a skirmish over which he had had no control.

Now as he sat in the wooden pew with the sun streaming through the stained glass, questions of morality became increasingly nebulous. Was there a difference between murder on the battlefield, and

any other form of homicide? Was it truly self-defense since Germany had been accused of violating the Versailles treaty? Was he as guilty as those being tried in Nuremberg?

Ilsa went to receive communion while Hans remained behind with Gretchen. He had not been to confession in years. Even as a POW, he had refused to ask for absolution of his sins. But it wasn't out of misplaced stubbornness or out of rejection of his Catholic heritage - it was because after all he had done and seen, he no longer was certain what a sin was.

On his knees, he prayed for strength and courage to carry him and his family through the tumultuous years which were sure to follow. He prayed for the souls of the men who would not return home, and he prayed for forgiveness for himself and for his country.

Except for the snippet of a hymn that Gretchen sang repeatedly, their walk home was a solemn occasion. Now, in the middle of the afternoon, Hans was packing the things he would need for the next week, and Gretchen had found a new game to play with Rosa. As Ilsa sat alone in the drawing room, the sunlight gently floated through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns of light and shadow on the wall opposite her. Even as she enjoyed the comfort of an unusually warm sun, she struggled to accept that her husband would be leaving soon - and she remained uncertain what his role was in this Allied expedition.

She had questioned Hans the night before, upon his return from Berlin, but he had been reluctant to discuss the specifics with her. Convinced that the less she knew, the less she would worry, he had related a sketchy outline of the rescue plan, but had refused to disclose any concrete details. What Hans didn't understand, Ilsa thought, was that her uncertainty was more worrisome than understood. As the minutes passed by, she became more determined to wrest the truth from her husband.

Ilsa rose from the couch and was about to go upstairs when she met Hans on his way down. "We have to talk," she resolutely announced as her eyes met his.

Hans stopped, halfway between steps. "About what?" he asked irritably, fully cognizant of where this conversation was headed.

Ilsa remained in the middle of the staircase, blocking his way. He suddenly was cold and aloof; she knew from experience that she wasn't going to get his cooperation. Attempting to remain calm she demanded quietly, "I want to know what they expect of you. I want to know what to expect."

"This is not the place for this discussion," he replied, indicating the staircase, then suggested they return to the sitting room. He did not intend to reveal the details of the rescue plans needlessly, but at least they could argue about it in private.

Ilsa conceded his point, and after allowing him to pass her on the steps, followed Hans into the sunlit drawing room. "Is it some misplaced sense of chivalry that makes you so stubborn?" she asked accusingly.

"Chivalry has nothing to do with this," he answered curtly, his back to her.

"Well, then, what is it?" Ilsa demanded, hands on her hips, refusing to accept his ambiguous answer. "Do you think I'm so simple that I won't understand what this is all about?"

Hans turned suddenly, anger flashing across his face. "Of course not," he replied, barely able to contain his irritation. He resented the implication that he was being condescending. He wanted to tell her that she was the most intelligent woman he had ever known; that he considered her opinion invaluable. But he realized his admission would only lead to further argument.

"Then you don't trust me."

Ilsa's accusation surprised Hans. "Don't do this to me," he implored her.

Refusing to back down, Ilsa's harangue continued. "To you?" she asked, incredulous of his ability to put the blame on her. "What do you think this is doing to me?" She didn't give him time to answer. "You haven't even left yet, and already I am sick with worry."

Enmity hung between them like an early morning frost, cold and frozen in time. Hans knew what he was doing to her - he felt it in the pit of his stomach, every time he considered the ramifications of this mission if he did not return. But he was convinced he was doing the right thing.

"I have told you the truth," he replied, his voice a mere whisper.

"Your truth," Ilsa answered. When no reply came, she was suddenly struck by the realization that Hans was not fighting back. She was frightened and intrigued at the same time. She was afraid that this assignment might be more dangerous than he had let on. If that were so, it became even more important to her to find out why.

Without approaching him, Ilsa candidly appealed to her husband, "Hans, we have shared everything. Why is this so different?"

He studied Ilsa's face for a moment, noting her intense need to understand what his motives were. "If I don't return," he hesitated as he explained what he believed would happen, "they will come for you." The room became silent as he allowed Ilsa to grasp this revelation.

"It would be best if you don't know too much," he said at last. His confession had a cathartic effect on his conscience. Yet the great weight which lifted from his shoulders had fallen squarely on Ilsa's.

"What do you mean, 'they?'" she asked, as fear crept into her voice.

"The Russians?" he answered honestly, crossing the room and taking her hands in his. "The Allies? Perhaps both. I don't know."

Suddenly, Ilsa regretfully wished she had not been so keen to ask questions that would cause her so much confusion. She momentarily dreamed of reversing time, so that she had not learned why Hans was being so secretive. She found it difficult to look him in the eye. Instead, she bowed her head and said, "But you are working with the Allies. . ." She shook her head in dismay; none of this was making sense.

"Yes," Hans replied kindly. "But I warrant they will be the first to support Russia's indignation, if a German is caught liberating a POW camp."

"What about their own men?"

"They will claim to be ignorant of the matter, and no one will be able to prove them different . . . except you."

Ilsa straightened, her face tight with concern. "I see," she whispered.

Hans felt his heart breaking as he wiped a tear from his wife's cheek and brushed her hair from her face. He gathered Ilsa into his arms and continued tenderly, "So you see . . . they will not be able to obtain information that you do not possess." Unable to bear the pain in her eyes any longer, Hans closed his eyes. "But I do trust you," he continued earnestly, "with all of my heart."

"I don't like this," Ilsa said, her head resting on his shoulder. Hans was not only risking his life, but his actions, if detected, would have far-reaching consequences that she was not prepared to face.

"Neither do I," he answered.

Hans and Ilsa sat together quietly on the couch, his arm around her shoulder. She rested her head against him, holding his other hand in hers, needing to feel his strength, his support and love. "How long will you be gone?" she asked. She doubted he could give her an exact timetable, but she needed an estimate - a date and time, something solid she could hold on to.

"At least a week," he replied. If all went well, they would be out by Friday, and in two days later he would be home. However, he reminded himself, there was no guarantee things would go smoothly. "Next Wednesday by the latest," he added.

"Do you promise?" Ilsa asked, reaching for whatever reassurance he could offer.

"I promise."

The sound of shuffling feet, suppressed giggles, and a muffled thud in the hallway distracted the couple from their pensive mood; they simultaneously rose to investigate the commotion.

In the middle of the hall, Rosa lay face-down on the crumpled area rug as Gretchen tugged on her arm to help her up. They were both dressed in different pieces of Hans' faded desert uniform.

"Gretchen!" Ilsa exclaimed in alarm underscored with dismay. "Where did you get those things?" she asked.

Ilsa knew her daughter had dug them out of a trunk in the basement, but wanted to hear her explanation. She fought to keep her temper in check, while watching Hans to gauge his reaction. Surprisingly, she found a glint of amusement in his eyes, and a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Gretchen's eyes grew wide with fright, knowing she had disobeyed her mother's warning not to play in the basement. And, if that weren't cause enough for trouble, she and her friend were playing in her father's clothes. They stood speechless as Ilsa and Hans towered over them; the uniform hat fell over Gretchen's eyes, as Rosa tried to free her arms from the tunic sleeves that reached almost to the ground.

"How many times-" Ilsa's scolding was cut short when Hans gave her hand a squeeze. She didn't know what he intended to do, but it was apparent that he wished to handle this situation.

Hans drew himself upright. If the girls wanted to play soldiers, he would give them a taste of what the military was all about. With his hands clasped behind his back, he circled the two children as if they were presenting themselves for inspection.

"Attention!" he barked as if addressing his troops, his face a mask of absolute authority.

The two girls instinctively straightened as they had seen the soldiers do, but Gretchen's lower lip began to tremble. Hans' face remained impassive as he held out a warning finger to his daughter. "Soldiers don't cry," he reminded her. Bending over, he raised the officer's cap from his daughter's eyes and straightened the uniform that hung loosely from Rosa's shoulders.

Standing erect, Hans put his hands behind his back again and rocked back once on his heels. He addressed the two girls without looking at them. "Since I am the commanding officer here. . ." He glanced at the girls who continued to stare straight ahead, understanding their role in this little farce. "I'd like to know whose idea it was to play in the basement."

Gretchen bowed her head and mumbled as she brought her finger to her mouth. "It was my idea, papa."

Dietrich turned toward her and, removing her finger from her mouth, he gently placed her arm back at her side. Placing a finger under her chin, he brought her head up erect. "Even though mama told you not to go down there?" he asked, expectantly.

"Yes, sir." Gretchen pouted, tears forming in her blue eyes.

"I see." Dietrich stood up straight. "So you disobeyed an order from mama," he said as if evaluating the seriousness of this offense, "and you were playing with my things without permission."

Gretchen only nodded as the tears streamed down her face.

Hans noticed Rosa's shoulders shaking as she began to sob. When she wiped an errant tear with one of the sleeves of the tunic, Hans pushed up the sleeve and placed a handkerchief in the girl's tiny hand.

"Good soldiers do not disobey orders," he warned the two children.

The two girls were visibly upset, but Hans was unwilling to dismiss them before he had rendered an appropriate reprimand. It was time, he thought, to give up the play-acting. There was no reason to make them more miserable than they were.

He crouched down in front of the two girls and removed the cap from Gretchen's head as Ilsa helped Rosa remove the uniform tunic. "Do you know why I don't want you playing with these things?" he asked, directing his question at Gretchen.

"Because they are from the army?" she responded innocently.

Dietrich shook his head and momentarily stared at the floor. "No," he said as he again looked at his daughter. "It's because this hat," he said, waving it for emphasis, "is much too large for you. You could've been hurt if this fell over your eyes and you couldn't see," he explained simply. Dietrich then looked at Rosa who had been relieved of her uniform. "You already tripped over the shirt because it was too long," he admonished the child. "Fortunately you fell on the floor and not down the steps." Hans looked at the two of them and hoped that they realized he was concerned, rather than angry.

Dietrich stood up and took Ilsa's hand. "Mama doesn't want you to play in the basement because it's dark and dirty and cold down there. We don't want you to become ill or injured because you were in the cellar."

"And I don't want you going down those old, wooden steps by yourself," Ilsa joined in. "You are both much too small," she added. "You could fall right through the back of them."

Gretchen and Rosa both seemed to realize they weren't going to be punished for their mistake, so Hans let them off with a light sentence. "Apologize to your mother, Gretchen," he suggested, thinking it best not to include Rosa in Gretchen's sentence. He guessed she probably had been coerced innocently into joining her friend in this misadventure.

After Gretchen had appropriately asked forgiveness, Dietrich sent them to spend the rest of the day in the nursery.

"You're much too easy on her," Ilsa cautioned her husband, feeling as if Gretchen deserved a more severe penalty for challenging her authority. When she looked at Hans, she reminded herself that her daughter came by her stubbornness honestly.

_You can't punish her because you see so much of yourself in her,_ she thought, acknowledging the tie that ultimately bound father and daughter together. She knew Hans had come to the same realization.

"I'm sorry about this," she glanced at the hat hanging from her fingertips and the jacket draped over her arm. She only was able to guess at the memories these articles of clothing would stir in him.

Hans took the uniform from her and shrugged. "No harm done," he said, studying the faded silver cord that encircled the crown of the cap and the bent, cracked leather brim.

Ilsa could tell Hans was drifting back to another place and time as he continued to gaze at the hat he held in his grip. "She's just like you, you know," she said softly, calling him back to the present. Noting the look of puzzlement, she explained, "You both invite trouble without realizing it."

Monday morning arrived more quickly than anyone had anticipated. Dressed in traveling clothes, Hans sat at the kitchen table, listening to the water boiling on the stove. Moving silently about the room, Ilsa labored at preparing a breakfast that neither one of them wanted.

"Thank you," Hans said absently as Ilsa poured him a cup of coffee. Staring at the steam rising from his cup, his mind strayed in random patterns of thought, each asking unanswered questions about the mission before him, the safety of his family, the whereabouts of Martin Mueller and the unknown factor he suspected would tie all of the elements together.

Hans had yet to touch his coffee when Ilsa brought him breakfast, which consisted of a single egg, toast, and a piece of leftover pork.

Dietrich stabbed at the tough meat, wondering how many times it had been warmed up in the past few days. "Still working on that pig, I see," Hans commented good-naturedly, as he opted for the soft egg and toast.

"I'm sorry," Ilsa started, "it's all we have until Wednesday when we're scheduled for our food rations."

"It's fine," he reassured her, shaking his head. "I suppose we should be thankful for three-day-old meat." He took a large mouthful of coffee to wash down the three-day-old bread.

"Did you talk to Clara last night?" Ilsa asked.

Hans nodded as he took another indifferent bite of the egg. "She wasn't happy," he answered mildly, "but it was the best I could offer her."

"Do you think they will find him?" A great deal of time had passed since Hans had reported the boy missing, which Ilsa interpreted as a bad sign.

"The longer he is missing, the more difficult it will be to find him," Hans answered, confirming her fears. "But he will surface sooner or later. He's too prone to trouble to avoid the MPs for long."

Dietrich finished his breakfast without touching the pork. Folding his napkin, he laid it alongside his plate. He looked at Ilsa, trying to avoid the concern in her eyes. Time was getting short; Sergeant Troy and his men would be there soon.

"I want to say good-bye to Gretchen," he said, reaching out to take Ilsa's hand. Rising from the table, he slid his hand over her outstretched arm to her shoulder and, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, bent over to kiss her on her cheek. "I'll be down in a few minutes," he murmured in her ear.

Hans slowly climbed the stairs to his daughter's room, carefully considering how he would explain his absence. Of all the obstacles he faced in accepting this assignment, he feared this one the most. In

five months the relationship between he and his daughter had survived many peaks and valleys. Now, just when he felt as if the two of them had reached a level of understanding, he would have to disrupt their lives all over again.

Quietly turning the doorknob to Gretchen's room, Dietrich took a deep breath to steady his nerves and stepped inside. He was happy to find her sleeping, as he wanted the time to memorize his little girl, sleeping in peace and serenity, oblivious to the changing world outside her window.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, he gently took her arm and turned her from her side to her back, which caused her to stir. "Gretchen." Hans spoke her name softly, so not to frighten her from her sleep.

Gretchen groggily opened first one eye and then the other. She pouted at first, confused by being wakened from a deep sleep. Then a little smile played on her lips when she realized her father was sitting next to her.

"Good morning," Hans greeted his daughter, smoothing her hair from her face. "Did you sleep well?"

Nodding, Gretchen rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "I dreamed about you, Papa," she said brightly, now fully awake. "You had your uniform on." Bewilderment was evident in her voice. "I don't know why," she added petulantly, apparently puzzled by her own dream.

Hans was taken aback, but attempted to conceal his surprise. Perhaps on some subconscious level, she already knew. Dietrich picked her up from under the covers and sat her on his knee, holding her close to him. "Darling," he began, "Papa has to go away for a few days."

"Why?" she asked with childish innocence.

Hans kissed her on her head. "I have to help some men to come back home," he answered in terms he thought she would understand.

Her eyes were wide with curiosity. "Are they lost?"

Hans shook his head and sighed. "No," he told her, "but they will not be able to come home unless I go to get them."

"Like the little girl in _The Seven Ravens_ that mama read to me?" Gretchen asked innocently.

Gretchen was obviously referencing one of her favorite fairy tales, and Hans had to search his memories of childhood stories to make the connection. He lightly laughed, impressed with his daughter's logic. "Yes, I suppose it's something like that," he replied, amused by being compared to a fairy tale heroine. He only prayed his story would have a happy ending.

Father and daughter sat in silence for a long while as Hans cuddled his little girl in his arms. He considered the past six years, scarred with violence, brutality, and war; the present full of confusion, condemnation, and desperation; and the future that bore the omen of uncertainty and misunderstanding. He suddenly felt an overwhelming need to protect Gretchen from the legacy of the Third Reich.

Feeling her father's trepidation, Gretchen instinctively reached up to hug him. Wrapping her arms around Hans' neck, she gave him the strongest squeeze she was capable of, and whispered in his ear, "Don't be afraid, Papa."

The sting of unbidden tears burned in Hans' eyes as he held Gretchen in his arms. He damned the war that had deprived him of being a father; he condemned the Allies for involving him in their schemes, and he cursed himself for being unable to ignore his beleaguered conscience.

Gretchen pulled away from Hans and studied the tear than had trickled down his cheek. Her brow furrowed in bewilderment. With a note of concern too grave for one so young, she repeated what her father had told her the day before, "Soldiers don't cry, Papa."

Closing his eyes, Hans held his daughter close. _Yes, they do,_ he thought miserably,_ yes, they do._

Two nondescript black sedans pulled up in front of the captain's home, bringing Sergeant Troy and his men to the Dietrich home a little earlier than planned.

"Whew!" breathed Mark Hitchcock. Removing his cap, he ran his fingers through his hair and peered through the windshield of the car. "He lives here?" he asked skeptically. The house was large even by Mark's upper middle-class standards.

"Try not to drool," Troy answered sarcastically. Together, the two men climbed out of the car and walked to the front door, to be joined by Tully and Moffitt.

"Are you sure we got the right place?" Tully smiled and moved the matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other. "I didn't think we were going to a ball."

"Try to practice a little decorum, will you two lads?" Moffitt asked, assuming his best upper-class British air.

His comment was received with a wry smile from Hitchcock. He often wondered if Dr. Jack Moffitt had been raised in a similar environment. Watching him now, the most relaxed of all of them, he was convinced the sergeant felt right at home.

Ilsa had seen the two cars pull up; she opened the front door before Troy could knock. Recognizing the American sergeant, but not the three men who accompanied him, she assumed they were the rest of the mysterious "Rat Patrol." After returning Troy's greeting, and being introduced to his companions, Ilsa opened the door a little wider and stepped aside to allow the men to enter.

"Hans is-" Ilsa glanced up the stairs apprehensively, trying to remember the English word she needed.

"_Die Treppe hinauf,_" Moffitt chimed in, hoping his knowledge of German would put Frau Dietrich at ease.

Ilsa brightened immediately; it was a great relief not to struggle with a foreign language. "_Ja, die Treppe hinauf_." Smiling, she asked the British sergeant, "_Sprechen sie Deutsch?_"

"_Ja,_" Moffitt answered, "But not as well as your husband speaks English."

Ilsa laughed modestly. "Yes, I'm afraid his English is much better than mine."

Troy was becoming impatient as Moffitt and Frau Dietrich exchanged pleasantries in a language he couldn't understand. "Moffitt," he gave his counterpart a verbal nudge. "Feel like letting us in?"

Ilsa realized Troy was eager to see her husband. She became despondent when she remembered the reason that these men were standing in the foyer. "I will see where is Hans," she said, what was left of her smile becoming sad and remote.

Standing on the first landing, where the stairs turned to the right, she looked up to see Hans and Gretchen, hand-in-hand, coming down the steps towards her. He had, apparently, allowed the child to dress herself. Gretchen's quilted robe hung slightly askew, her belt dragging the steps as she scuffled uncertainly down the stairs in her slippers.

Ilsa held out her arms to pick up her daughter as Hans handed Gretchen over to her mother. "Sergeant Troy and his men are here," she stated simply, resigned to the fact that Hans would be leaving with them.

Hans looked down at the four expectant faces. "They're early," he muttered distastefully. Not only would he be separated from his family; it appeared that Troy wanted to get an early start.

Troy couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling he had watching Dietrich interact with his wife and daughter. On his last visit to the captain's home, and their subsequent meetings, Dietrich had not seemed much different than the man he had known as his enemy in North Africa. True, the clothes had changed, and his appearance had softened, but the fiery intensity he had come to expect from the captain was still very much evident. Now, Hauptmann Hans Dietrich appeared to be nothing more than a loving husband and father; a man with a home and roots. This was the first time Sam Troy realized just how much his life differed from Dietrich's.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Dietrich acknowledged the four men as he followed Ilsa and Gretchen down the stairs. "You're early," he said, checking his watch for dramatic effect.

"There are a few details we need to go over before we get started," Troy stated resolutely, taking a step back to allow Frau Dietrich and her daughter to pass.

Dietrich nodded as he watched Ilsa straighten Gretchen's robe, tying the belt in a dainty bow. He noticed the look of uneasiness Ilsa gave him as she led Gretchen to the kitchen. He stared at nothing for

a moment while his wife and daughter disappeared down the hall, then turned his attention to Troy. "In

here." Dietrich indicated the sitting room, trying not to let his emotions color his perception of this mission.

After closing the doors on both sides of the room, Dietrich sat down and cleared the coffee table, allowing Troy to spread his papers out in front of them. Moffitt, Hitch, and Tully sat on the couch opposite them.

"These are your traveling papers," Troy handed Dietrich an envelope bound with a string. "Your name will be Hans Bauer for the time being," the sergeant continued, while searching the stack of paper for more orders. "If anybody asks, you're our German cousin who we've come to take back to the States." Looking up, Troy noticed the look of disgust on Dietrich's face. He straightened to confront the captain's apprehension. "Look, Captain," he began, a touch of hostility in his voice, "Your English is damn good, but let's face it," he added for emphasis, "you'd never pass for an American."

Dietrich tucked the envelope inside his jacket's breast pocket. "Why, thank you, Sergeant," he smiled.

Tully had to suppress a laugh. "Gotcha there, Sarge," he noted with amusement.

"Round one to Captain Dietrich," Moffitt added, suspecting that their partnership would be full of these little contests.

Troy shot them both a look that warned them not to take the joke any further. He looked at Dietrich who did not appear to have found any humor in their comments. "That's a topographic map of the terrain surrounding the camp, which is here." Troy pointed to the large complex that appeared to lie between two hills. Some sort of passageway cut a route through the smaller of the hills that laid to the south. "We can access the camp through here." He traced the route of the pass that led back towards the small town of Kaliningrad.

"And we can use the hill for reconnaissance," Dietrich thought aloud.

"It didn't take much thought for them to build the POW camp here," Troy noted. "This place just about begs for some sort of military installation."

Dietrich continued to study the map. "Hmm," he nodded in agreement. Having memorized the terrain, he folded the map and handed it back to Troy. "Well, the Russians have never been know for their imagination," he added sarcastically.

"Sarge," Hitch asked, "how is the captain going to get inside the camp?"

"That's going to be the tricky part," Troy said, glancing at Dietrich. If the captain was worried, he could not tell from the man's demeanor. He had assumed the guise of a professional soldier - an identity vastly different from the Hans Dietrich he had witnessed a few minutes ago on the stairs.

Troy unrolled another map and pointed to four guard towers that intersected the corners of the north and south walls. "Intelligence says they change guards every six hours. We'll get the captain in during one of the changes, at night."

Troy's focus changed to the shorter walls facing east and west and he spoke directly to Dietrich. "I think it would be best to scale one of these walls, Captain. They're apt to pay less attention to them."

"Either way, I will have very little time to get inside," Dietrich said, concentrating on the areas Troy indicated. "The east wall would be best," he stated confidently.

"Why the east?" Troy wondered.

"There is a strong wind that blows off of the sea, from the east," Dietrich explained. "At night it's bitterly cold." He straightened, but continued to stare at the rendering of the camp. "With luck, the guards will find it frigid enough to turn their backs to the cold and give me time to get over the wall."

Arm-in-arm, Ilsa and Hans slowly walked towards the front door, stretching each second, cherishing each touch, every word, the fear of separation and an unknown future plaguing each step. Stopping at the door, they shared a deep, passionate kiss. Holding Ilsa tightly, Hans closed his eyes. "I hate this," he whispered in agony.

Ilsa held him closer. "But you have to go," she replied stoically.

Hans nodded in response. As much as he disliked the idea, his conscience would not permit him to trade one responsibility for another. Sighing deeply as he pulled himself from Ilsa's embrace, he looked

down at Gretchen, who had been standing quietly by her mother's side. When he picked his daughter up, she wrapped her small arms around his neck.

"I don't want you to go, Papa," she whimpered.

Hans rocked her in his arms, trying to comfort her. "I'll be back soon, darling."

"Do you promise?" she asked, as she studied his face.

"I promise," he answered unwaveringly. "Will you take care of Mama while I'm gone?"

Gretchen's smile was like a ray of sunshine as she enthusiastically nodded her head.

"Good." Hans placed Gretchen lightly on the floor. Unable to put off his leaving any longer, he picked up his bag. "I should be going," he said, unable to meet Ilsa's eyes. There were so many things he had left unsaid; now there were no words to describe the emotions that engulfed him.

Ilsa cupped his chin in her hand, raising his head so that she might preserve his face in her memory. "I will pray for you every day," she told him, attempting to keep the anguish out of her voice.

She had used the same expression every time he had been assigned to a new post in a distant, alien country. Her prayers had kept him safe for the many years they had been apart - he hoped God was still listening.

Hans kissed Ilsa gently, lovingly, on the lips. It was finally time to leave.

They had made a pact five years ago that she would never watch him leave. It was easier on both of them. As Hans closed the door behind him, he looked out at the dismal gray sky and the low-hanging clouds. It was growing colder and he suspected it would be snowing soon. It mattered little what the temperature was; the cold weather could not match the chill in his heart.

60


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_

The hours passed slowly as the two cars sped through the German countryside. Weary of the endless succession of bombed out buildings, refugee camps, and needless destruction, Dietrich endeavored to read, ignoring the conversation between Corporal Hitchcock and Sergeant Troy. Soon, the battle between the German verse and the English chatter became too much, so he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.

"Checkpoint," Hitch announced for the fourth time in as many hours.

Dietrich inched forward on the back seat and peered through the front windshield. An American corporal approached the car, rifle in hand, and waited as Hitch rolled down the window.

"Papers," he said as he examined the three passengers. "Any German nationals?" the guard asked as he collected their traveling permits.

"One," Troy responded. He jerked his thumb towards Dietrich who silently assumed his role as a rescued refugee. "He's our cousin," Troy explained. "We're taking him back to the States."

The corporal closely examined Dietrich's papers, then looked again at the passenger in the back seat. Satisfied their papers were in order, he handed the passes back to Hitch. "He don't look too happy about leaving this hell hole," he commented, assuming the German would not understand.

Dietrich's eyes flashed in anger, and he leaned forward to answer the insolent soldier, but a warning look from Troy stopped him. Instead, muttering a German obscenity, he leaned back against the seat.

Hitch, to distract the corporal from Dietrich's wrath, said, "Oh, he'll be happy enough when he gets there."

"Just one of the 'sour Krauts,' huh?" All three Americans laughed at the pun, while the captain stared indignantly out the back window. "Good luck, gentlemen," the soldier said, while indicating to his partner to let these travelers pass.

Hitch waved his thanks and, heaving a sigh of relief, started through the gate. "How many more of these do we have to pass before we get out of Germany?" he wondered aloud.

"I think there are road blocks every hundred kilometers or so," Troy answered. He glanced at the back seat. "And I suggest you keep your temper in check, Captain. I don't want anything to screw up this mission."

Dietrich was about to ask Troy if he needed the sergeant's permission to be insulted when the gleam of chrome outside his window caught his eye. "Pull over!" he blurted out.

Hitch looked back at Dietrich and then at Troy while trying to keep the car on the road. "Sarge?" Mark waited for Troy's direction.

Grabbing the dash, Troy braced himself as the car suddenly weaved across the road. "What the-?" He turned to the captain in time to see him slam his hand against the seat in front of him.

"Stop the car!" Dietrich ordered, distinctly uninterested in Hitch's concern over the chain of command.

The situation had escalated beyond his control, and with nothing left to do but comply with Dietrich's request, Troy ordered Hitch to pull over to the side of the road. "What the hell is going on?" he yelled.

Dietrich's door was open before Hitch came to a complete stop. As he hastily left the car, he stopped long enough to answer Troy. "That is my car, Sergeant," he said, pointing to the black Mercedes parked alongside the road at the checkpoint they had just passed. Leaving Troy and Hitch behind, Dietrich jogged back to the roadblock.

Troy pounded his fist on the dashboard. "Damn!" he angrily cursed. This was no time for Dietrich to be worried about his lost car. "Follow him!" Troy ordered curtly as Hitch automatically swung the car around in the opposite direction. Dietrich's actions would not only put them off their time schedule, but could jeopardize the whole mission. "He's going to blow our cover!"

Hitch and Troy beat Dietrich back to the checkpoint station in time to prevent the captain from investigating the reappearance of his car. Jumping from the front seat of their car, Troy grabbed Dietrich by his coat lapels.

The corporal, who had busied himself with Moffitt and Tully's papers, swung around at the clamor arising on the other side of the road. He instructed Tully to pull over while he investigated the ensuing brawl between the German and his American cousins.

"I want an explanation, now!" Troy demanded, while attempting to restrain Dietrich. When the German refused to answer, he exploded, "I'm giving you an order, Captain!"

"Get your hands off me, Sergeant!" Dietrich growled. Not only did he resent being restrained, but he took umbrage at taking orders from Sam Troy.

"This is not the time to worry about your car!" Troy exclaimed angrily. "You're putting us all at risk!"

Dietrich quit struggling long enough to look Troy squarely in the eye. "My car?" he asked in astonishment. Troy had entirely misread his motives. "This has nothing to do with my car," he said bitterly.

By now all the sentries had gathered around Hitch, Troy, and Dietrich, their guns at the ready. "Hold it right there!" one of them shouted.

Troy ignored the soldiers and stared at Dietrich for a moment. If this weren't about the car, then it had to be about the Mueller boy. "Even if he's in there-" Troy indicated the lean-to set up as a shelter, "-What will you do then?" He didn't need an answer from the captain when he saw the look in his eyes. "No!" he decided immediately, "you're not taking him with us."

"Let me be the judge of that," Dietrich responded while forcing his way through the maze of men.

Troy grabbed him by the arm and spun him around to face him. "This is my operation," he warned the captain. "I make the decisions."

"And I am responsible for that boy's life," Dietrich answered hotly, the strain of the day beginning to take its toll. "I suggest you wait until we find out if he is here before you start throwing your authority around."

"All right," Troy agreed, while loosening his grip on Dietrich's arm, "but let me handle this."

Dietrich nodded his consent. "Agreed," he replied more calmly.

Assured of the captain's cooperation, Troy let his arm go and addressed the guards. "The Mercedes," he said, pointing to Dietrich's car, "how'd it get here?"

"It's stolen," one of the guards answered, "the kid who took it is in our custody. We're waiting for the MPs to pick him up."

"Can I talk to him?" Troy asked.

"What's this all about?" asked the corporal who had allowed the three to pass. "I thought you guys were on your way to the States."

"My cousin thinks this is his car," Troy answered politely, as Dietrich impatiently looked on. "The boy who was driving it is an acquaintance of his." The sergeant gave Corporal Lambert a crooked smile. "Just some sort of misunderstanding, I think."

Not entirely convinced by Troy's explanation, Lambert nonetheless allowed them to pass and escorted them to the shelter. "He's in here," the soldier said as he shouldered his rifle, and opened the door to permit Troy and Dietrich entrance.

The building itself had been constructed hurriedly of whatever wood the engineers could find. Barely large enough for two people, it was distinctly crowded when the three men entered. Martin Mueller

sat forlornly on a wooden chair in the far corner; scared and out of his element, he looked as if he finally had met his match. His eyes grew wide when he recognized Dietrich, but understood an unspoken cue from the captain not to divulge their relationship.

"This is him," the corporal said by way of introduction. "Sassy little brat," he added, "but I think he's relatively harmless."

Troy looked at Dietrich. "Is this him?"

"Yes," Dietrich answered quietly, his gaze focused on Martin. He didn't know whether to be angry or glad that they had found him. Now the question remained what to do with him. "May I have a moment with him?"

The corporal stepped back as Dietrich approached Martin. With as much control as he could muster, Hans addressed the young man. "Get up," he ordered quietly. If Martin wanted to be treated like a man, the captain had every intention of fulfilling his wish.

Unsure of Dietrich's intentions, Mueller refused to move. Instead, he sat rigidly in the wooden chair.

"I said get up!" Dietrich barked wearily in German. The boy's rebellion was growing tiresome and the captain's nerves were wearing thin. He closed his eyes long enough to gain his composure as Mueller jumped up from where he was sitting. "I don't need to tell you the trouble you've caused. But you should appreciate how fortunate you are that I found you before these men could hand you over to the military police."

Martin had no idea why this was a "fortunate" circumstance. He had faced the captain's ire before - he didn't like it then, when he had committed a minor transgression; he was sure he wouldn't like it now after stealing the car and the silver. He began to wish the Military Police would arrive soon.

The coal stove used to heat the tiny building gave off little warmth, heating the shelter only a few degrees more than the outside temperature. If the sweat forming on the boy's brow was any indication, Dietrich assumed he was obtaining the desired response from Mueller.

"You can relax," he assured the boy, "I'm not going to press charges." As he glanced out of the corner of his eye, Hans noticed Martin's shoulders slacken. "I will, however, ask the MPs to take you back to my house. Your mother can deal with you until I get back. I'm sure she will not be as lenient with you as I have been."

Addressing Corporal Lambert, who seemed to be in charge, Dietrich asked that Martin be returned to Luckenwalde, at his address. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to leave.

"Hold on a second," Lambert instructed the little entourage. "I have orders from Berlin to detain this kid." He reached across the desk and picked up a piece of official looking paper. "From a 'Sergeant Sam Troy' out of Major Armstrong's office."

"Troy's a friend of mine," Sam Troy said, thinking fast to avoid revealing their true identities. "He won't have any problem with sending the kid home."

"Sergeant Troy might not," the corporal argued sarcastically, wishing civilians wouldn't take it upon themselves to make military decisions. "But I'm not going to take any chances crossing Major Armstrong."

Dietrich resolutely walked back to face Corporal Lambert. "Then I suggest you call Major Armstrong," he tersely directed the guard. "Tell him Hans Bauer found his car, I'm not pressing charges, and I'm asking to send the boy home."

"I can't call Berlin!" the corporal protested.

"Then what will happen to this young man?" Dietrich asked as if he were concerned with the boy's welfare. "I'm not pressing charges, so he can't be arrested. You won't call Berlin to verify my story. . ."

Any hope Martin Mueller had of finding his lost father was rapidly disappearing; he was being abandoned by the only person who could facilitate his planned rescue. In one last effort to salvage his mission, Martin practically hurled himself at Dietrich. "Take me with you!" he pleaded, grabbing the sleeve of the captain's overcoat.

"What's he saying?" one of the soldiers asked.

"He wants to go with us," Dietrich interpreted for the Americans, allowing the boy to cling to him.

"His papers are okay," Lambert mused, not suspecting Martin's travel permit was counterfeit. He looked to both Troy and Dietrich. "It's your call," he advised the two men.

Troy was trapped in a seemingly impossible dilemma. Whatever decision he made now would impact on their mission, and he could not see any positive outcome. They couldn't leave Mueller to find his own way back; according to what Dietrich had told him, the odds of the boy returning home without getting into further trouble were slim. Troy also suspected that Martin's ardent desire to accompany Dietrich and the Rat Patrol meant he knew enough about their project to be dangerous. Even if they insisted that Corporal Lambert phone Major Armstrong, they still ran the risk of exposing their plan.

Troy looked suspiciously at Dietrich. The look of total acquiescence on the captain's face meant he knew that Troy's conclusion had already been reached - he had known it all along. The sergeant then looked at the apathetic soldiers - they only wanted to get this settled and get on with their other responsibilities. Martin Mueller looked strangely contrite and intimidating at the same time.

"We'll take him with us," Troy snapped angrily, throwing Dietrich a look that indicated how much he disliked being forced into the decision. He then turned his attention to Corporal Lambert. "I'll make sure he gets home safely," he growled.

The corporal was only too happy to be rid of his unwanted charge. If the American knew Sergeant Troy, as he said he did, Lambert decided to allow him to explain the circumstances to the sergeant. The kid certainly was familiar with Herr Bauer, and he was obviously desperate to get out of Germany. Judging from his own experience in this foreign land, Lambert really couldn't blame him.

At the same time, the corporal felt this was one of those decisions that he would later regret making, but he wanted to get the situation settled. Shrugging his shoulders, he consented to their agreement. "Take him. It'll be one less Jerry to worry about," Lambert agreed, feeling there was little else left to do with the boy. "I just hope I can explain all of this to Berlin," he muttered.

"Don't worry," Troy assured him, "I'll take full responsibility for this."

Lambert snorted. Shaking his head, he glanced at Troy. "You're a braver man than I am."

"You don't know the half of it," Troy replied disgustedly.

Troy encouraged Corporal Lambert to allow the MPs to take the car back to headquarters in Berlin. Having collected Martin's personal items, the two men left the compound with the Mueller boy in tow. When they were out of earshot of the sentries, Troy turned and grabbed the boy by the arm.

Caught off guard, but cautiously defiant, Martin tried to squirm out of Troy's grasp. Unable to shake the American, he desperately looked to Dietrich for protection.

Troy spun the young man around and pinned him against the car. "You're only here because I don't know what else to do with you," he began his lecture, seething with anger and frustration. "So we have to get a few things straight." He stood nose-to-nose with the boy, as he continued his tirade. "One, you are not part of this operation. I don't care how much you think you know, but I guarantee it's just enough to get you and the rest of us killed. Therefore, you will not participate, in any way, in this mission."

Troy took a moment to make sure what he was saying made an impression on Martin. The look of indifference on the boy's face made him uneasy. "Two," he pressed on, "you will do as I say. No questions asked. You will not take orders from Captain Dietrich or anyone else in this group and you will not go off half-cocked on some adventure of your own." He paused, then asked, "Do you understand?"

Martin nodded his head once. He understood only a little of what the sergeant was ranting about, and he cared even less. He knew full well he was unwanted, but remained determined to carry out his own agenda.

"Three," Troy continued seriously, "we are not here to find your father." Martin tried to respond, but Troy cut him off. "There's no debate. I will not risk the lives of my men and Captain Dietrich to go off on some foolhardy escapade just to satisfy some wild notion you have that your father is still alive."

Dietrich had remained silent throughout Troy's invective, but when he saw the look of pain that crossed Martin's face, he felt he had to intercede on the boy's behalf. "Sergeant," he said with restrained irritation, only to be ignored.

"More than 250 lives depend on the successful completion-"

"Sergeant!" Dietrich loudly demanded Troy's attention. "I think he understands the seriousness of our mission," he announced, while watching Martin for a reaction. "Don't you, Martin?" Satisfied when Mueller nodded his head, he continued, "Good. And you understand that finding your father is not part of this mission." The captain's comment was more a statement of fact than a question.

Martin glanced from Dietrich to Troy and realized he was outnumbered in this matter. He miserably nodded his head in agreement, unable to offer any resistance in his current predicament.

Giving Dietrich a look that registered his indignation at the interruption, Troy reluctantly released Martin. At least the captain had been able to elicit a response from the kid. "Get in the car," he tersely ordered the two Germans. "We're already an hour behind schedule."

Troy glanced over his shoulder to Moffitt and Tully, who had remained in their car during the interlude and nodded his head that he and Hitch were ready to get started.

Moffitt immediately picked up on the gesture and ordered Tully to start the car.

Having received permission to move on, Tully wondered aloud, "Now, what do you think that was all about?"

Moffitt threw his partner a knowing glance. "With those two?" he asked, referring to Troy and Dietrich, "one can never tell, can one?"

Tully laughed under his breath at the unspoken implication. "No," he replied, amused by the Moffitt's very proper English, "one can't!" Without looking back, he gunned the engine to catch up with Troy and Hitch.

Within minutes, after clearing the final checkpoint at the German/Polish border, Dietrich, Martin, and the Rat Patrol were safely in the Polish countryside. The sun was beginning to set in the west, and there was nothing but darkness looming on the eastern horizon. The heavy clouds had finally given way, releasing snow like rose petals that softly fluttered to earth, collecting along the roads and in the fields. Hours later, as they drove deeper into Poland, the snow that had started as a gentle flurry, developed into a steady downpour, forcing the two sedans to slow considerably as they maneuvered over the treacherous terrain.

Frozen precipitation began to collect on the windshield, streaking the glass with snow and ice. Dietrich listened to the monotonous slapping of the wipers as they worked fiercely to clear the window. The sound only served to accentuate the cold silence inside the car. Dietrich had nothing to say to Troy - he had his reasons for acting as he did. _It's a private matter_, he thought, and he didn't feel he had to explain anything to the sergeant.

Troy was angry at Dietrich for placing him in an uncomfortable position, and he was angry at himself for allowing the captain to do so. The sergeant consoled himself by concentrating on the reprimand he would issue to Dietrich when they were alone.

Martin had decided not to speak to anyone. He didn't know what the captain's motives were when Dietrich refused to press charges, and he was able to convince himself he didn't care. Although he was temporarily in the custody of the Americans, technically, he was free. As far as Martin Mueller was concerned, this trip was just a another step towards finding his father, and he would do everything in his power to use it to his advantage.

Fifteen kilometers outside of Bydgoszcz, Hitch turned off the poorly maintained main road to a snow-covered path that eventually led to a rather large farmhouse. Dietrich wiped away the condensation on the back window and peered out into the dark night. The thick clouds obscured the stars and moon; the only light was from the car's headlights, which reflected off the white snow. Even after his eyes adjusted to the blackness outside, Dietrich could not detect any landmarks that might reveal where they were.

As they slowly approached the house, it appeared one room in the back was dimly lit. Smoke rose softly from the chimneys at either end of the house, stubbornly threading its tendrils heavenward against the driving snow. As they parked the cars behind the house, Troy turned to face both Dietrich and

Mueller. "We'll be staying here overnight," he explained flatly, unable to read Dietrich's reaction. What he had to say next would require a little diplomacy. "The people who live in this house played a large part in the Polish resistance," he warned the two men. "I'd suggest you say as little as possible, and keep the German to yourself." Troy looked directly at Dietrich, adding, "And let me do the talking, this time."

"Certainly," the captain replied, seemingly undisturbed by Troy's revelation.

Content with the man's apparent cooperation, Troy turned around and got out of the car. Before going to the back door, he dipped his head back inside the front of the car. "And make sure your 'friend' does the same," he added caustically, referring to Martin.

Speaking to Hitch, who remained behind the steering wheel, Troy instructed the corporal to remain in the car until he had a chance to make sure the arrangements still were feasible.

Twenty minutes later, without the engine running, the temperature inside the car had dropped dramatically. Martin blew into his cupped hands, then wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. He muttered a complaint in German, which drew a sharp response from Dietrich.

"May I remind you, Martin," he snapped in English, "that if it weren't for fortuitous circumstances, you'd be spending the night in a jail cell rather than sitting in the back seat of a cold car, a free man. I suggest you make the best of this."

Martin looked at Dietrich for a moment, somberly replied, "Yes, sir," then continued in his efforts to keep himself warm. Captain Dietrich was right, of course, but he didn't like the feeling of being indebted to anyone, much less an American sergeant.

Martin's non-contentious capitulation surprised Dietrich. It felt entirely unnatural not to be engaged in another argument with the boy. Hans was able to dwell momentarily on the boy's unusual reaction before he noticed Troy returning from the house. The sergeant stopped first to speak with Moffitt, then made his way back to their car.

"Their English isn't very good," Troy said by way of explanation, as he climbed into the front seat. "It took me a while to explain why we had another passenger," he addressed Hitchcock, but nodded toward the back seat. "They understand that you're German," he said as he turned halfway around in the front seat. Still not facing Dietrich directly, he continued, "I don't think they're real happy about it, but they're willing to cooperate since this is an Allied operation."

"What are their names?" Dietrich asked, distracted by the anticipated hostility he and Martin might face.

"Josef and Stasia Rybicki," Troy answered quickly. "There's a couple of kids, but I didn't get their names."

Dietrich shrugged indifferently. With any luck, they wouldn't be here long enough for the children's identification to matter.

"Do they know what's up?" Hitch asked, referring to the true nature of their plan.

"No," Troy answered, "and they don't need to know." Although he was sure the family was trustworthy, the fewer people who knew about this assignment, the better the odds were they would not be found out. "Grab your things," he ordered the rest of the men, "and get some sleep, 'cause we're getting an early start tomorrow."

Dietrich walked slowly to the old farmhouse. He had no desire to put himself in the direct line of fire of a couple of Polish patriots. The swift German occupation of Poland had met with great, but futile, resistance. The destruction of Poland had been massive; the continued Nazi presence oppressive. It seemed to Hans that the Poles, constantly caught in a tug-of-war between Russia and the rest of Europe, found even greater strength and pride through the constant turmoil.

Having spent the greater part of the war in the African desert, Dietrich had heard little of the war in Europe except through official communiqués, which he didn't always trust. The destruction he found in his own country was staggering; he wondered if other occupied nations would understand the common bond he felt with them.

Dietrich knocked the snow off his boots in the mud room, then followed Troy and the others into the immaculate kitchen. The house smelled of warm bread and hot coffee, and a tray of cheese and fruit was on the table. At once he felt comfortable, yet equally out of place in a home where he knew he was not wanted.

Josef Rybicki was a small, thin man with graying hair, dressed in an undershirt and an old pair of corduroy trousers held up by suspenders. He had a round, rugged face that looked older than it should have. He removed his glasses and shook hands with the Americans as they introduced themselves, a welcoming smile on his face. The smile disappeared when he was introduced to Dietrich and Mueller. The Pole put his glasses on again to examine the two Germans closely.

Hans grew distinctly uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny. It would take little more than this man's word to have Hans arrested simply because he might suspect the captain of some sort of war crime. While Dietrich tried to hide his uneasiness, he could sense Martin chaffing at the inspection. Unnoticed, Hans unobtrusively placed his hand on the boy's slack forearm. If Martin had any plans to challenge Rybicki's examination, Dietrich hoped his hand would act as a warning not to overreact.

The inspection resulted in a nod of the head, which was more of an obligatory acknowledgment than a half-hearted welcome. Rybicki turned to address the Rat Patrol. "Please," he indicated the food on the table, "there is for you to eat."

Hitch and Tully immediately thanked their host and, removing their hats, availed themselves of Rybicki's hospitality. Martin was about to follow their lead, when Dietrich's hand restrained him. He glowered in the captain's direction when Dietrich asked to be shown to their rooms.

"Of course," Rybicki replied, indifferent to Dietrich's request.

Josef started to lead the two up the back steps to their rooms on the second floor when he was stopped by his wife. The couple argued quietly at first, then vehemently, over the husband's lack of consideration when it came to feeding the two Germans. Stasia waved in the direction of Hans and Martin, then looked back at the kitchen table, as she continued to shower her husband with invectives. Josef strongly stated his case, winning in the end, as his wife threw up her hands in disgust and stalked away. Unshaken, he looked back to Dietrich and Martin, and nodded for them to follow him up the stairs.

Hans and Martin followed Josef to their room at the end of the hall. "There is only one room," the older man explained without apology. "We did not know there would be two of you." Rybicki opened the door to the room, and walked away leaving the two Germans to their own devices.

Hans felt along the wall, but was unable to find a light switch before Martin discovered an oil lamp on the bedside table. He quickly lit the wick and, replacing the glass shade, held out the lamp to illuminate their surroundings. The room was large, cold, and austere. A single bed was centered between two windows on one wall; the adjacent wall held an empty fireplace. The bare floor creaked under their feet as they entered and closed the door behind them. After setting his suitcase on the floor, Hans checked the water in the pitcher on the dry sink.

"Ice cold," he sighed, then turned to look at the bed.

"This place is a shit hole," Martin complained bitterly as he dropped his belongings in a heap just inside the door.

"Watch your language," Dietrich dispassionately ordered. "What did you expect?" he asked as he surveyed his surroundings.

Under the circumstances, they were lucky not to be sleeping in the car. The war had taught him to make the best of a bad situation; he had seen far worse than this. He noted there were several blankets and two sheets stacked on top of the bare mattress; sorting through the bedding, he kept the sheets for himself and gave the blankets to Martin.

"I didn't expect to be treated like a dog!" Martin argued, as he held out his arms to take the bedding from the captain. "And I'm starving!" he exclaimed, pointedly protesting not being permitted to eat.

"You'll eat tomorrow," Hans assured Martin. "There's no sense over-stepping our unenthusiastic reception. Besides," he reminded Martin, "it could be worse." Before Martin could respond, Dietrich answered, "You could be in jail."

Martin stared at Hans agape. "You're not going to allow me to forget that, are you?" he asked indignantly.

Dietrich spread the sheet out over the bed and drew it taut. "Probably not," he answered, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he admired his handiwork. He turned toward Martin, who stood in

the middle of the room, blankets in hand. "I suggest you find a warm spot on the floor for those," he added, indicating the covers in Martin's arms, "unless you plan to stand there all night."

Martin was about to reply when a soft knock sounded on their door. Crossing the room, Dietrich opened the door to find Stasia Rybicki holding a covered tray, accompanied by a young boy carrying a few logs of firewood.

"I am bothering you?" she asked in disjointed English.

"No," Dietrich replied pleasantly. He stepped aside to allow the two to enter. "Please, come in."

Martin's eyes lit up when he noticed the food in the woman's hands. Perhaps things weren't as bad as he imagined.

"My husband," Stasia began hesitantly, "he can be. . ." She searched for the right word, ". . . unkind." She apparently was accustomed to apologizing for Josef. "I did not want you to sleep without something." She removed the cloth to reveal a few slices of warm bread, as well as cheese and some fruit.

Hauptmann Dietrich gave her his most charming smile. "You are very generous," he replied warmly.

Stasia looked thoughtfully at Dietrich as she studied his face. "I do not know what you and the others are doing," she said honestly, "but I know you are good men." She placed the tray in his hands. "Polish . . . American . . . German," she shrugged, "it does not matter." She sighed softly and placed a patient hand on his arm. Instructing her son to place the wood in the fire place, she smiled regretfully, "It is very cold here."

Dietrich shook his head in disagreement. "It is much warmer now," he assured her. Seven months ago they would have been enemies; tonight they stood together in common understanding. "_Dziekuje_1," Dietrich replied, genuinely grateful for the woman's concern. He handed the tray to Martin.

"_Prosze__2_," Stasia responded cheerfully, delighted that her guest was courteous enough to speak her own language. But her delight soon turned to consternation, as she remembered the heated argument he had witnessed in the kitchen. "Do you speak Polish?" she asked warily.

Dietrich realized she feared he understood the many slurs her husband had used against the Germans while the couple had argued downstairs. "Only a little," he lied. He had been called a great many names in a multitude of languages. What Josef Rybicki thought of him and his race mattered very little now.

A look of relief passed over Stasia's face. "Well, I shall leave you alone," she said, satisfied that no harm had been done. With her hand on the doorknob, she called her son to leave.

"_Dobranoc__3_," Dietrich said as he held the door for Stasia and her son.

Stasia smiled warmly at Dietrich and then at Martin, who was too busy eating to notice her leaving. "_Dobranoc_," she replied sweetly and closed the door behind her.

Dietrich disgustedly glanced at Martin. The boy apparently had no manners, and deserved to be reprimanded, but he was too exhausted to participate in the inevitable argument that would follow. Instead, he pulled off his boots and laid on the bed, his back to Martin. The small fire was enough to take the chill out of the room and, pulling his coat over him, he drifted off to sleep.

1 Thank you.

2 You're welcome.

3 Good night.

68


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9**_

_In full dress uniform, surrounded by nothing except devastation, Hauptmann Hans Dietrich stood on a precipice. Burned-out abandoned buildings dotted the landscape behind him, covered in a thick cloud of heavy smoke; the acrid odor of decaying corpses and burned flesh assaulted him; he heard the plaintive cry of the victims as they awaited death. The air was oppressively hot. It wasn't the dry heat of the desert that he was accustomed to, but the humid heat that radiated from the sodden ashes of the demolished structures. As he tried to shield his eyes from the sting of smoke, he sought out a landmark he might recognize in the midst of the catastrophe. When he could find nothing to identify his location, he turned to search the region that lay on the opposite side of the chasm. He blinked a few times to clear his eyes of the tears distorting his vision, but could see nothing through the fog that enshrouded the unknown territory._

_The wailing that had begun as syncopated, mournful cries, exploded into a cacophony of pleading voices, originating in the canyon below him and echoing across the barren wasteland. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of hands reached for him. He strained to listen, as men, women, and children of all ages, races, and nations called to him in a multitude of languages he could not discern or understand. Teetering on the brink of the crumbling ledge, Dietrich hastily retreated a few steps to keep from falling into the abyss._

_The blinding smoke, combined with the stench of death, forced him to his knees and, eventually, to lie on his stomach beneath the cloud that formed above him. As he gasped for a breath of fresh air he soon noticed a soft light that appeared on the horizon, and a single voice that rose above the others, calling his name. Extending his arm across the ravine, he reached for the light, calling for his wife. As he was about to make contact with the light, a strong hand savagely grabbed his arm and began to pull him into the chasm below. No matter how hard he struggled, whoever was holding him was stronger, and he felt himself slipping. . ._

Hans lurched upright, violently waking from the nightmare. He was sweating; his breathing rapid and shallow as he tried to find his bearings. The room was dark and bitterly cold - the last spark of flame having extinguished itself hours ago. With his shirt damp from perspiration, Dietrich sat shivering on the edge of the bed. He wrapped his coat around him for warmth and tried to dismiss the nightmare from his mind. It wasn't as though his mind was playing tricks on him . . . in fact, he knew the dream had been a result of everything he had witnessed in the past twenty-four hours . . . the past few months . . . and the past five years. Scenes of devastation, death and destruction plagued his waking hours and haunted him at night. His inability to halt the onslaught of memories only compounded his feeling of powerlessness.

Hans sat for a long while, watching Martin sleep, waiting for the sun to rise on the horizon, and marveling at the boy's ability to sleep so peacefully, especially after the events of the previous day. On some level, a part of him envied that lack of conscience. Martin seemed to have little regret and even less remorse about his conduct.

Martin Mueller approached life with blinders on; he questioned nothing and saw only what he wanted to see, assured of his course against all odds. Ilsa thought the boy's inexperience made him naïve; Dietrich knew his naïveté made him dangerous.

He stood and crossed to the window, then watched the dim morning glow ascend in the east. The winter storm had passed and the sunlight reflected brilliantly off the white snow that covered everything as far as the eye could see. The winter sun was, in itself, a dichotomy. It could be as harsh and as blindingly bright as the desert sun, yet the heat it gave was barely enough to warm the air, and inadequate to melt the snow and ice. Dietrich could still recall the hot desert sand - how it would sting and burn when it made contact with his flesh, how it would collect in his hair and clothes. He considered how the snow shared similar characteristics with the sand. It had taken him many months to adapt to the dry, burning heat; now he was having an equally difficult time adjusting to the wet, numbing cold.

A knock called the captain's attention away from the window. Quietly opening the door, he found himself face-to-face with a young lady he guessed to be twelve or thirteen years old. She was of average height, but the heavy tray she carried in her arms attested to her strength. Dietrich attempted to relieve her of her burden, but she effortlessly moved between him and the door to set the tray on the dry sink. Wordlessly, without a second glance at Hans or Martin, who lay sprawled on the floor, she replaced the pitcher of cold water with a new one, and left clean towels and a bar of soap. From the steam that rose out of the new vessel, Dietrich assumed it was filled with hot water, and he was appreciative of the chance to freshen-up before starting out for Lithuania.

"_Dziekuje._" Dietrich's thank-you was met with an indifferent stare; the girl disappeared as quickly as she had arrived. He shrugged, pausing only for a moment to consider the girl's non-response, then wrote it off as what he hoped was just more misplaced teenage apathy.

The hot water felt good on his hands and face; Hans spent a little extra time shaving, just to enjoy the warmth. Wiping his face dry, he nudged Martin with his foot, but his attempt to rouse the boy was met only with a noncommittal grunt. Hans sighed with annoyance. While he was willing to see to the boy's safety, he had no intention of being his baby-sitter.

"Get up, Martin," Dietrich gruffly ordered as he neatly made his own bed.

Martin rolled over onto his back and groggily stared at the ceiling. "What time is it?" he asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

Dietrich thought the question to be a moot point. No matter what hour it was, Martin had been given a direct order to get moving. Reminding himself that Martin wouldn't respond to a request, much less an order, Dietrich looked at the sun in the sky outside the window. "Between six and seven." Without his watch, he could only estimate the time.

Pulling on his boots, Dietrich glanced over his shoulder as Martin groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. Crossing the room to open the door, he left Martin with one final thought. "If you don't get up, you'll miss breakfast."

The aroma of fresh-baked bread, coffee, and sausage drifted up the stairs as Hans made his way to the kitchen. "_Dzien dobre__1_," Stasia Rybicki smiled at him as he entered the room. Her smile faded to a frown when she looked at Dietrich's face. "You did not sleep well?"

The woman's concern touched a chord in Dietrich. There was a genuine warmth about her, a caring that went beyond physical comfort. "I'm fine," he assured her, although he was certain his eyes gave him away.

Stasia handed him a steaming hot cup of coffee. "This will make you feel better," she offered graciously. "Sit there." She indicated a wooden chair next to the table.

Hans thanked his hostess and deeply inhaled the rich coffee aroma. It tasted even better than it smelled, and anything was better than the bland ground concoction that passed for coffee in Germany these days. "This is very good," he commented, as Stasia sat opposite him, sipping at her own beverage.

"It's probably not what you're used to," Stasia observed. It was obvious from his movement, his speech, and his manners that this man came from genteel society.

Understanding Stasia's apprehension, Dietrich laughed at the irony. "No," he agreed, smiling at his breakfast partner, "it's actually better!"

Stasia returned his smile. Whether he was intentionally misleading her out of politeness or simply was being honest, she was enjoying the German's company. Taking another sip of her coffee, she examined Herr Bauer over the lip of her mug. The first thing she noticed was the wedding band on his right hand.

"You are married?" she asked cordially.

Hans fumbled with the ring that had given him away. He had meant to leave it at home; it was best not to be wearing anything that would identify him if he were captured. He didn't think it would matter if Stasia Rybicki knew, however. "Yes," he nodded. "For eight years," he added, reflectively.

"How many of those years have you been apart?" Stasia asked casually as she sliced a piece of bread, placed it on a small plate, and handed it to Dietrich.

Her question caught Hans off guard. Was his military bearing that obvious, or had their paths crossed at some point in the past six years?

Stasia recognized the tremor of concern that momentarily made her guest stiffen. "Herr Bauer," she said, watching him to gauge his reaction, "or whatever your name is. . ." Stasia Rybicki had been in the espionage business long enough to know her guests were using assumed names. "I am a poor Polish woman," she began timidly, then looked him in the eye, "and I know a German officer when I see one."

What had started as a pleasant chat had suddenly become a rather uncomfortable situation. Dietrich was not surprised by the woman's astute observation, and realized it was no use denying what they both knew to be the truth. However, the captain could not afford to jeopardize his true identity, or that of the Rat Patrol. In any case, he guessed having breakfast with a German citizen was quite different from having breakfast with a Wehrmacht officer.

"You are a very wise woman," he conceded without admitting anything.

"No," Stasia disagreed, "I am. . ." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "I have 'experience' in these things."

Dietrich could hear the familiar note of loathing in her voice. From Corporal Harris' barely disguised hostility, to the obvious hatred expressed by Josef Rybicki, Dietrich felt himself to be an easy target for those who wished to use him as an object of their scorn. He thought he should be used to it by now, but hearing it from Stasia Rybicki bothered him much more than he had expected. He could only guess at Stasia's "experience," and, at this point, he really didn't need to hear the details.

Stasia could sense Hans' uneasiness. She had obviously touched a nerve. "Do not worry," she said sincerely, "I believe you are an honorable man," she explained. "You would not be here if that were not true." She shrugged and added, "The rest, only God can judge."

Hans silently looked at Stasia Rybicki. This woman, who had lived through the worst of the German occupation; who had fought for her country, and because of her role in the resistance, had suffered at the hands of his fellow officers, now judged him worthy of sharing her home. Hauptmann Hans Dietrich was humbled by her compassion. Staring into his empty coffee cup as if he would find absolution there, he whispered, "It is God's judgment I fear the most."

The atmosphere at the breakfast table was strained and quiet. The lack of conversation an indication of the intensity as they all focused on the job ahead of them. If the final leg of their trip went well, the Rat Patrol, Dietrich, and Mueller would reach their destination by mid-afternoon. Tomorrow they would be making final preparations for the liberation of the POW camp.

Dietrich ate little, and watched in amazement as Martin refilled his plate for the second time. Corporal Pettigrew seemed to be enjoying his meal also, and Hans wondered if there was some sort of unspoken competition going on between the corporal and Martin, to see who could eat the most. He gratefully accepted a proffered cigarette from Troy. Although he had brought his own, the captain couldn't resist his one great weakness . . . a good American cigarette.

As he lit the cigarette, Hans became acutely aware of Josef Rybicki's cold, penetrating stare. He suspected the man also knew of the captain's military service, but he decided to ignore the intimidating glare. In a few hours, this home and its inhabitants would be but a memory, he reminded himself. He needed to concentrate on what was before him . . . not on what was in the past.

Individual suitcases were tossed haphazardly into the ample trunks of the cars. For the first time, Hans thought to inspect the empty storage space. There was no evidence of arms or ammunition, and he supposed it was hidden from the prying eyes of the border patrol. He laughed to himself, feeling as though he had been cast in some American gangster movie.

The good-byes were short and simple as Hans and Martin waited patiently by the car. Without voicing his relief, Josef Rybicki had made it perfectly clear he was glad to be rid of his German borders; Hans, at least, was glad to be released from his scrutinizing gaze.

With his arms folded in front of him, and his head bowed in boredom, Martin Mueller slumped against the car's fender. "I thought we were leaving," he muttered, chafing at the delay.

Hans pulled Martin upright by the shoulder of his jacket, insistent that he stand up straight. "They are being polite," he explained, feeling as if he were addressing a child. "Something I assume you know nothing about."

With a jerking movement, Martin pulled his shoulder away from the captain's grasp. "I don't have to be polite to these swine," he vehemently disagreed.

Dietrich stared disbelievingly at Martin for a moment, then turned away. He was the perfect "Aryan" - arrogant, self-assured, belligerent . . . the product of a societal experiment gone terribly wrong. If Martin represented the best of what Germany had to offer, Hans dismally wondered what hope his country had of a brighter future.

Absently kicking at a mound of snow, Dietrich shoved his hands in the pocket of his overcoat and waited expectantly for Troy and his men to render their thanks. The air was bitterly cold and the atmosphere of mutual apprehension that hung between Hans and Martin wasn't much warmer. Deciding it was best not to let the boy antagonize him, the captain looked past Martin to find the members of the Rat Patrol, slowly making their way to the cars.

Stasia's eyes met Dietrich's as she stood on the porch and uncertainly waved good-bye to her friend. She understood why Herr Bauer kept his distance; Josef had been less than courteous to their German guests and she couldn't blame them for being were eager to leave. Still, she would have liked to have the chance to wish them God's blessing on their journey.

Hans would have gone back to the house to convey his thanks to the gracious woman, but thought better of it when he realized his action might cause further friction between her and her husband. There was no point in causing her more difficulty. Instead, Hans simply nodded gratefully, hoping Stasia would correctly interpret his intent. When Dietrich saw her wistfully smile in response, he knew she understood.

The captain only noticed Sergeant Troy standing at his side when he felt the man's hand on his arm. Troy apparently had noticed the interchange between Stasia and the captain. Gently he coaxed Dietrich into the car.

"We've got to leave, captain," the sergeant said quietly.

Without responding, Dietrich climbed into the back seat of the car. As the two vehicles moved cautiously through the countryside, he stared out of the passenger-side window passively, lost in thought and recollection. Although it made driving was a bit more treacherous, he was glad it had snowed. The white covering concealed much of the squalor that scarred the landscape as a result of war and rebellion; the captain preferred to imagine the land as clean and bright as the new-fallen snow.

Acres of farmland passed by in a blur of gray, white and blue, with the occasional sign announcing a road intersection or village. A few animals who were hungry enough to forage for food made an appearance here and there, their thin bodies defined by protruding ribs and even thinner coats; humans had not been the only victims of battle.

Dietrich sighed and awkwardly leaned his head against the back of the seat, watching as his breath formed a thin layer of condensation on the window. The combination of a warm car and the previous night's lack of sleep finally wore down his resistance. Closing his eyes, he thought how odd it

was to feel so safe and comfortable in the company of the men who had been his adversaries for so long; he almost felt guilty for being so relaxed. As he nodded off to sleep, Stasia Rybicki words came back to him" _I know you are good men . . . Polish . . . American . . . German . . . it does not matter._

Corporal Hitchcock used the rearview mirror to examine his passengers in the back seat. The Mueller kid was sitting on the driver's side of the car. Distant and obviously anxious, he seemed to be sitting as far away from Captain Dietrich as he could manage. The captain's hands were in his lap, and from the angle of his head against the window, Hitch guessed that he was fast asleep.

Mark nudged Troy, then jerked his head in the direction of the back seat. "Sleeping like a baby," he commented not unkindly, a touch of amusement in his voice.

Troy glanced behind him at Dietrich and smiled. From their previous encounters with Hauptmann Dietrich, Troy never had considered that the captain might need sleep from time to time. Seeing him now, asleep and unguarded, somehow made the captain seem more human.

"Well, I'll be damned," Troy stated in mock amazement, "he's just like the rest of us."

Martin misinterpreted Troy's comment as an insult and immediately came to Dietrich's defense. "He is nothing like you," the boy spat angrily.

Laughing under his breath, Troy turned around to face the front. "That's what you think, kid," he muttered, discounting Martin's defense as just another poor imitation of German unity.

Martin would not be dismissed so easily. "He did not sleep well last night," he explained, although he suspected the Americans weren't interested in Hauptmann Dietrich's welfare. Martin was bewildered by his sudden need to defend the captain. It wasn't as if Herr Dietrich ever showed him any sort of affection; in fact, there seemed to be a definite lack of camaraderie between the two men. Still, Hans Dietrich had shown his caring in other ways - he had not left Martin in the hands of the Americans; he had seen to Martin's welfare and comfort, and most of all, he had treated him like an adult. Finally, whether he approved or not, Dietrich had made it possible for Martin to journey this far, and he was determined not to stop until he had found his father.

Martin gazed at Dietrich carefully. "I heard him call his wife's name several times," he added, quietly.

When Dietrich stirred, Troy turned towards Martin and, in hushed anger, ordered the boy to be quiet. Satisfied that he wouldn't get any further argument, Troy murmured aloud, "He's going to need all the rest he can get."

Resting her chin in her hand, Ilsa stared at the empty chair at the head of the table. The children were playing upstairs, and Clara had offered to clean up after dinner. After a full day of household chores, with no one to interrupt her thoughts, Ilsa had nothing left to do but reminisce. Hans had only been home for five months, after years of separation. In that short time, they had learned to live and love again; to pick up the pieces of a life torn apart by turmoil; to carry on despite the hidden scars.

Hans had returned from the war a changed man. Moody, distant, and bitter, he had returned to a country he no longer recognized and a wife who had adapted to the change. Her husband's long absence had required Ilsa to be stronger, more independent and self-assured; the war at home had made her tough. Yet through all of the upheaval, the one thing that remained constant was their love for each other. He admired her, she respected him, and together they were committed to starting over again.

Just as they had begun to feel comfortable with each other, fate had dealt them a grievous hand, and again, they found themselves in transition. Hans had not had a choice in the matter when the Allies had requested his help - as hard as he fought against it, his immutable nature refused to back down. As much as Ilsa had desperately prayed he would not leave, she knew his decision had been made the day he met with the American major.

She knew it would always be this way when she had accepted his proposal of marriage eight years ago. When she thought he was hers, his first love - Germany - would constantly call him away. It did not mean he loved her or Gretchen less, but his feelings for his country were tied up in more

demanding emotions of pride, dedication, responsibility, and service. She had never been jealous of his mistress, until now. Now his lover had called him back out of spite, and he had answered out of guilt.

The sound of a car in the driveway and a loud knock on the front door brought Ilsa from her reverie. Realizing there was no one else to answer the door, she silently rose from her chair and slowly walked to the foyer. From the reflection through the cut glass window in the door she could see the visitor was male, and from the color of his uniform, she guessed him to be an American soldier. Cautiously, she opened one half of the double doors and peered into the darkness to examine her caller.

Ilsa's heart sank as her worst fears stood before her, embodied as a member of the Military Police. She didn't hear what he said as he removed his white helmet and looked at her expectantly. Her mind was preoccupied with denying all the scenarios her imagination could conjure.

"Ma'am?" The sergeant wasn't sure the woman at the door had understood his introduction. "_Sprechen sie Englisch?_" he asked again.

"Yes," she finally answered, attempting to stay controlled and focused. She chided herself for jumping to conclusions. "A little."

The sergeant's hardened face relaxed a bit. "My name is Sergeant Jeffrey Roberts." He repeated his prior statement, which obviously had gone by unnoticed. "I've been sent here from Allied HQ in Berlin." When the woman made no response, he asked, "Are you Frau Dietrich?"

Ilsa closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the door frame. "Yes," she whispered, dreading what would come next.

Sergeant Roberts was growing increasingly confused. He wasn't sure why, but this interview was not going well. Frau Dietrich had turned an ashen white and he thought she might faint. "Are you okay, ma'am?"

Ilsa bit her lower lip and looked up at the sergeant. She nodded her head in response and collected herself. "I am sorry," she stammered. Opening the door a little further, she asked the sergeant to come in.

"Oh, that's okay," he murmured, then held up a set of keys between his thumb and forefinger. "I was just sent here to return your car to you."

Ilsa's eyes widened in astonishment. She glanced at the sergeant, then looked past him to the two cars in the drive. One was definitely a military jeep . . . the other was Hans' Mercedes.

This time, Ilsa closed her eyes and murmured a prayer of thanks. This wasn't about Hans, the Rat Patrol, or their mission. Tears welled in her eyes as she pressed her hand over her mouth, trying not to cry.

Sergeant Roberts began to suspect there was another story here that had nothing to do with the missing car. The tears on Frau Dietrich's face weren't those of happiness, but of relief. His heart went out to her as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she produced from the pocket of her dress.

Ilsa nodded, a little embarrassed at reacting so emotionally in front of the MP. She didn't need to apologize again when she saw the look of understanding the sergeant gave her. She smiled thinly as she neatly folded the handkerchief and calmly placed it back in her pocket. She sniffed once, then raised her head suddenly, as she remembered why the car was missing. "Martin!" she exclaimed in a loud whisper.

Ilsa looked at the sergeant and could see he was bewildered by this new turn of events. "There was a boy," she explained hastily, hoping Clara wouldn't walk in before she could find out what had happened to the Mueller boy. "Martin Mueller?"

The sergeant's eyes still registered confusion. Ilsa looked around him and saw the only other person in the car was another American MP. Martin was nowhere to be found. Ilsa knew she had to try to determine what had happened to Martin before Clara found out about the returned car.

"Please, come in," she asked the sergeant, ushering him inside the front door.

Sergeant Roberts uncertainly complied with her request. It was a cold night, and he suspected it was going to be a long one as well.

Ilsa nervously clasped and unclasped her hands as she paced before the sergeant. "There is a boy," she carefully began again, not wishing to use the wrong words in English. "His name is Martin Mueller. His family is staying with us and he took the car." She searched the sergeant's face to be sure he understood. Satisfied that she was making herself clear, she continued, "My husband phoned your-"

"Wait!" Roberts interrupted as he remembered the note he was supposed to deliver with the car. "Maybe this will straighten this all out," he murmured as he searched inside his jacket pocket for the letter. Handing the note to Frau Dietrich, he asked, "Do you want me to read it for you?" He could tell she was having a tough time with the language.

"No," she answered shakily, taking the envelope from the sergeant. She fleetingly wondered why she expected bad news every time she received correspondence from the Allies. "I can read English." Turning away from the sergeant, she positioned the paper in the light of the table lamp in the foyer and read the short note.

It was handwritten and signed by Major Armstrong - the same officer with whom Hans had been dealing.

_Frau Dietrich, _the letter began. _Your husband's car was found yesterday, near the German/Polish border. The boy is safe with the captain. I have no other details at this time. Major Thomas Armstrong, 34th Armoured Division._

Ilsa didn't bother to read the rest. Hans was safe. Martin was safe. Why Hans had not sent Martin home was a bit puzzling, but she was too excited by the good news to care. She laid the paper flat on the hallway table and allowed her hand to linger over the words, drawing renewed strength from the report. After she collected her thoughts, she turned back to the sergeant.

Sergeant Roberts had waited, feeling rather awkward, just inside the front door. He held his helmet in his hands, obviously unsure what Ilsa's next reaction would be.

She smiled gratefully at the soldier. "You must think this all very strange."

"No, ma'am," he disagreed, politely. "I've seen 'strange,'" he continued sympathetically. "Mostly since I've been in your country." The sergeant's statement wasn't a judgment, but a statement of fact. "This," he said, indicating the note and the keys he still held in his hand, "is more of a good thing."

"Yes, it is," Ilsa quietly agreed, moved by the man's keen observation. She was eager to give Clara the good news, but thought she owed the MP at least some sort of hospitality. "Where are my. . ." She couldn't remember the word for "manners," but bravely continued on. "Would you like some coffee?"

Sergeant Roberts smiled gratefully. "No, but thanks, anyway," he answered honestly. "I think we'd best be going."

"Well. . ." Ilsa started, genuinely wanting to offer the soldier something in return for his trouble. "Perhaps your friend-" She was cut short by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Turning quickly, Ilsa found Clara Mueller peeking curiously around the corner.

"Ilsa," was one of the few words Sergeant Roberts understood when the new arrival addressed Frau Dietrich. The two women began to converse animatedly in German. When Frau Dietrich showed the note from headquarters to the other woman, they embraced each other as if they had both been blessed by a miracle.

Realizing he had been completely forgotten in all the excitement, Sergeant Roberts softly deposited the keys on the hall table and quietly slipped out the front door. He stood for a moment, gazing at the stars in the clear night sky. Since his arrival in Berlin, he had seen the worst indignities men could inflict on their fellow men. But it was at times like these, when he was able to affect someone's life positively, that he knew he had been stationed in this war-torn country for a reason. Whatever significance the car and letter had to those two women was their own secret . . . he was satisfied with the knowledge that by this one seemingly insignificant act of courtesy, he had eased a heavy burden.

Hans' stiff neck ached when he opened his eyes and tried to lift his head from between the seat back and window panel. Soft music crackled from the car's speaker; the first thing he focused on were the bright stars in the dark night sky.

"Feeling better, sir?" Hitchcock asked affably, when he glanced in the mirror to find the captain awake. A glint of self-satisfaction sparkled in Hitch's eye; he was glad Captain Dietrich felt comfortable enough to relax in their company.

Rubbing his neck, Dietrich looked at their driver. "Yes," he answered, "I think so." He was embarrassed to have fallen asleep in the first place, and annoyed that he had slept so long. "Where are we?" he asked pragmatically. Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, he tried to clear his mind.

"About a half-hour from Kaliningrad," Troy replied. "After we get settled in, Captain, we'll need to get together for a strategy session."

"Understood," Dietrich answered, nodding to himself. Hans was glad to hear that Troy intended to do some pre-planning before their reconnaissance expedition tomorrow. He had learned early in his career that the seemingly insignificant details determined the final outcome of an assignment. Feeling a little more confident about the task at hand, he turned his attention to Martin, who had been uncommonly quiet. He watched as the young man sat, intensely involved in the book he was reading.

Because of the poor lighting, Martin squinted in the darkness to read the faded print. He eventually became uncomfortably aware that he was being watched. Slowly closing the book, he looked at Hauptmann Dietrich. "It was in the car," he said, ready to defend himself before Dietrich could voice an accusation.

Martin automatically handed the book to the captain. Dietrich glanced at the spine, as he gently turned the worn, leather-bound book over in his hands. He rifled through the aging pages, enjoying the musty aroma of a bygone era. He read the inscription on the inside cover - a sentimental note written by his grandmother to his grandfather - and noticed the spine had cracked, exposing a few binding threads.

"Heinrich Heine, _The Book of Songs,_" Hans recited affectionately, as he closed the book of poetry and handed it back to Martin. It was clear that the name didn't mean anything to the young man. "A nineteenth century German writer," he explained, unable to discern whether Martin was truly interested.

Martin had only had a cursory exposure to literature before he had been forced to quit school, and the daily routine of basic survival had not left him much time for academic pursuits. But he had to admit he felt a connection between himself and the author. "He's very good," he answered appreciatively.

Momentarily taken aback by Martin's candid admission, Dietrich wondered if, perhaps, there was hope for the boy after all. Nodding in agreement, he decided to test the boy's conviction. "His books were banned by the Nazis."

Martin quietly looked at the book in his hands, evidently perplexed. Admittedly, he didn't understand all of the nuances of the imagery, verse, and composition, but he was certain this work was worthwhile. He enjoyed the romantic overtones and clarity of thought. It had stirred his heart and challenged his imagination. "Why?" he finally asked. "This is only a collection of love poems."

Hans watched Martin for a moment. He was glad to see Martin was troubled . . . it meant he was still able to reason for himself. Perhaps in time, he would learn to trust his own opinions. Dietrich bowed his head and took a deep breath. Although he feared his answer would deal a serious blow to the boy's intellectual curiosity, he knew he owed Martin the truth. "He was of Jewish descent," Hans stated flatly, as he met Martin's disbelieving stare, "and a socialist. A lethal combination, wouldn't you say?"

For the first time since they had met, Martin was left speechless. Perhaps the captain was wrong. How could a Jew write such a work of beauty? The Jews were less than human - dirt at the feet of the true Aryan race, filth to be washed out of the Reich. They were lazy and useless. Their contributions were discarded, ignored, or simply discounted as worthless or evil. Why then, would he, a true German, be drawn to the work of one such as this? Disturbed by questions he did not know how to answer, Martin immediately fell back on the only course of action he knew - he handed the book back to Dietrich. It was easier to ignore his conscience rather than to question his own misgivings.

Dietrich reluctantly took the book from Martin. There was no reason to compound the boy's uneasiness by forcing him to confront his doubts - he seemed to be in enough turmoil as it was. Placing the book on the seat beside him, he offered a compromis, "I'll keep it if you want to read it later."

Martin turned his head away from Dietrich and stared out of the window. "I won't want to," Martin replied, his pretense of resistance masking his confusion.

Dietrich watched the young man as he continued to stare out the window at the emptiness of the dark night. Having discovered a flaw in Martin's armor, he was determined to find the man beneath the

teenage angst. "Heine once said that burning books could only lead to burning humans," he insisted, then after a moment, added sincerely, "I hope you'll change your mind."

The inn in Kaliningrad was old, drafty, and dark. A fire roared in the hearth of the poorly vented, stone fireplace. A faint cloud of smoke hung near the low ceiling like a fog that had settled in with no means of escape. Exposed wooden beams formed the skeletal structure of the main room, illuminated by candles held in wrought iron sconces decorating the supporting pillars and an oil lamp on what passed for a reception desk.

"Charming place," Moffitt commented sarcastically. His British accent seemed especially out of place in their new surroundings. "I wonder where they hide the bodies?"

A large dog lay curled up next to the fireplace, uncaring if the new arrivals were friend or foe. Tully playfully scratched the animal behind his large floppy ears. "Looks like they left 'Fluffy' here to guard the place," he reported, noting the peculiar lack of human presence.

Troy loudly dropped his suitcase on the desk and peered around the corner of the adjoining room to see if anyone was around. "Anybody here?" he bellowed at the non-existent attendant. When no one answered, he turned to the rest of the group, "Are you sure this is the right place?"

"This is it, Sarge," Hitch answered immediately, a look of disgust on his face. "I kinda' wished it wasn't."

Dietrich stood by the door, waiting while the Americans made their usual demonstration of bravado as they searched for an innkeeper. He purposely avoided eye contact with Martin; if Mueller thought the Polish farmhouse was a "shit hole," he could only imagine what he thought of this ancient inn.

The boards in the wooden floor creaked as Hans shifted his weight and set his suitcase at his feet. He glanced about the room as his eyes adjusted to the lighting. Although the structure was old, it didn't look as bad as he had first thought. The walls were stuccoed, but recently painted, and although wax dripped from the burning candles, there was evidence of electricity in the antiquated wiring system. Dietrich followed the exposed wire around the perimeter of the ceiling to where it abruptly ended at a light switch on the wall. Cautiously feeling for the cylindrical outlet, he reached to turn on the lights.

The loud snap and sudden light drew everyone's attention to the captain, standing in the doorway. Shrugging nonchalantly, he secretly enjoyed the look of wonderment on Sergeant Troy's face. There had been only a few times when Dietrich had elicited such a response from the man and he savored each one of them.

Troy was caught off guard, but he quickly recovered. He didn't know why, but it got under his skin when Captain Dietrich beat him to the punch. It wasn't so much that he discovered the lights . . . but he was so damn glib about it.

"Now, how about finding us somebody who works here," he said, directing his sarcasm at Dietrich.

As if on cue, the captain stepped aside and the front door opened. A gust of wind blew a smattering of snow through the doorway . . . and with the snow came the front-desk clerk. Leaving his cozy spot by the fire, the dog lazily wagged his tail as he waited for a kind word from his master. Dietrich examined the innkeeper, who ignored the men in the room and spoke instead to his faithful companion. The man was short and round, with a few days' growth of beard on his heavily jowled face. A tattered fur hat adorned his head and his long coat brushed the tips of his dirty boots; he smelled of fish and the sea.

Finally, the man turned a toothless smile on his guests. After asking them something in Russian, and receiving nothing but blank stares in return, he opted for what little English he knew.

With much effort - consisting mainly of loud broken English and wild gesticulating - Troy finally arrived at an understanding with the flustered clerk. "There are no keys to be had," the sergeant advised his men, "so keep any valuables or 'other' important papers on you at all times."

The meaning of "other" was universally acknowledged by the assembled group.

"Hitch," Troy called out to the corporal, "you're with me in number three." He handed Moffitt a piece of paper with room number four on it, "Moffitt, you're with Tully." Room five went to Dietrich and

Martin. "We'll meet at exactly-" Troy glanced at his watch. "Nineteen-hundred hours to do some planning for tomorrow, understood?"

Each nodded his agreement, but before the attendant could lead them to their rooms, Troy turned to Dietrich. "The same rules apply here as they did before. Keep the conversation to a minimum, and definitely not in front of the locals," he sternly ordered.

Dietrich barely nodded his assent. He didn't need to be told he and Martin were in enemy territory. Stasia and Josef Rybicki had been kind enough under the circumstances, but there was no assurance that the local townspeople would be as understanding.

1 Good morning.

77


	10. Chapter 10

_**Chapter 10**_

The small room was not much warmer than the lobby downstairs, and the smoke seemed to be filtering through the thin, wooden floors. However, there were two beds, for which Martin was especially grateful - the thought of another night on the floor wasn't very appealing, especially after a day spent in the back seat of an automobile. He watched as Dietrich slowly, silently moved about the room. He seemed to be a curious mixture of unshakeable resolve and unexpected ingenuity. Martin already had discerned the captain's routine. He removed his gloves first, carefully putting one in each pocket of his overcoat. After hanging up his coat, he took off his boots, placing them on the floor directly beneath the coat. He then methodically arranged each toilet article side-by-side in a straight line on the bedside table. Martin expected him to stow the luggage underneath the bed next, but instead he abruptly sat on the edge of his bed, his back towards Martin.

"Are you well?" Martin asked, tentatively approaching Herr Dietrich, who was running his hands shakily through his hair.

Hans jumped unexpectedly, as if he had forgotten Martin was in the room. "I'm fine," he answered harshly, seemingly agitated by Martin's expression of concern. Immediately realizing he had reacted inappropriately, he apologized. "It's very warm in here," he commented, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.

Martin studied the side of Dietrich's face for a moment. The man's skin had taken on a gray pallor and a few beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead. "You are ill," he observed, suddenly worried about his companion.

Hans wiped at the perspiration at his temple and shook his head saying, "It's just nerves."

Rising slowly from the bed, trying to ignore his aching body, Dietrich silently cursed his bad luck; this was the worst possible time to be sick. However, he remained determined to complete his assignment. After noting the time, he closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead, attempting to prioritize the evening's activities.

"I need to meet with Troy and his men," Dietrich told Martin. "When we're done, we can find something to eat."

"I'm going with you," Martin responded firmly.

"Martin, please-" Hans quietly pleaded with the boy not to begin another argument.

"You're not well," Martin hurriedly proceeded, before Dietrich could voice his objection, "don't bother to deny it." He was glad when Herr Hauptmann allowed him to continue. "You are going to need an extra pair of eyes and ears." He looked Dietrich earnestly in the eye, "I won't cause any trouble - I want to help."

Dietrich shook his head once and slightly bowed his head. He was in no mood to argue, and, as much as he hated to admit it, Martin did have a point. If he were to have trouble concentrating, at least the boy could fill him in later. He had no intention of letting Troy or the others know he wasn't feeling well.

"Fine," he said, meeting Martin's gaze. "Only do not talk - just listen." He gave the boy a half-hearted smile. "I'm going to have a bad enough time explaining your presence to Troy."

"You can depend on me," Martin confidently assured Dietrich.

Hans stared at Martin for a moment, then nodded. It appeared the boy had grown up overnight. "Good," he responded at last, accepting the proffered help. He hoped this unexpected growth would last until they were safely out of Lithuania and headed home.

"What's he doing here?" Troy asked gruffly, voicing his displeasure at the sight of Martin tagging along behind Captain Dietrich.

"I wanted him to stay where I could keep an eye on him," Dietrich replied as he threaded his way between Troy and Corporal Hitchcock, who were standing just inside the door to the sergeant's room. He thought the fabrication would appease the American, considering Troy's brief but turbulent association with Martin.

Sam Troy suspiciously eyed Dietrich and his companion. No matter how much the captain might disapprove of Martin's behavior, Troy could tell they had formed some sort of tenuous bond. The captain certainly acknowledged his responsibility for the boy's welfare, but Troy suspected Dietrich's feelings for Martin ran deeper than those of protector and guardian. Perhaps it was a shared sense of patriotism, no matter how disparate their political convictions, that had provided a common ground for the two men. Perhaps the captain saw Martin's rehabilitation as a challenge to his leadership abilities, or perhaps he recognized a part of himself that he could never admit to in Martin's rebellious nature. Whatever feelings the two had for each other, Troy was certain their newfound relationship would complicate matters for everyone concerned.

The sergeant grudgingly admitted Mueller, then opened the door a little wider for Tully and Moffitt. The British sergeant cast a wary eye at Martin. Shoving his hands in trouser pockets, he questioningly cocked his head in Troy's direction.

Shrugging, Tully raised his eyebrows in wonder, cracked a crooked smile, and took his place beside Hitch.

"All right," Troy said, as he stretched the topographic map out on one of the single beds. "I just want everyone to be sure of their positions for reconnaissance tomorrow." Bent over the map, he glanced up at Dietrich, to be sure the captain understood his intent.

Dietrich answered Troy's stare with a cold, hard gaze that was impossible to decipher. Hans was doing his best to ignore his innate desire to take command of this operation. He reminded himself of his agreement with Major Armstrong - he would follow the American sergeant's orders, despite being required to swallow his pride.

Troy shifted his attention back to the map. No matter what the captain was thinking, there only could be one leader of this unlikely group of soldiers. "We'll take up position on this hill," he said, pointing to a hill north of the encampment. The sun should be behind us and shouldn't pose too much of a problem."

"The glare off the snow, might be," Moffitt observed in his usual erudite fashion.

Troy looked at his British counterpart and smiled. Always the pragmatist, Moffitt could be depended upon to examine a problem from every angle. However, in this case, the U.S. Army had outsmarted them both. Troy produced a package from his duffel bag and handed it to Hitch.

"Pass these around," he ordered the corporal.

Moffitt grinned as he slipped on the wire-rimmed sunglasses. "Good old Uncle Sam," he observed affably. "One can always count on him to come through in an hour of need."

Hitch opened the glasses and held them out in front of his face without putting them on. "They're not going to do me much good," he commented, feigning disgust. The sunglasses were not going to fit over his eyeglasses. "Oh well," he shrugged, "can't see with 'em; can't see without 'em."

"You're blind as a bat either way," Tully chimed in enthusiastically.

When Hitch playfully poked a sharp elbow at Tully's ribs, Troy knew he would have to put a halt to the horseplay before a genuine ruckus broke out. Dramatically clearing his throat, he attempted to get the corporals' attention. "If you two are ready," he sternly addressed the two men.

Feeling appropriately chastised, Hitch apologized, "Sorry, Sarge."

Dietrich was losing his patience with all of them. This was certainly unlike any strategy planning session he had ever attended. Not only was the insouciant attitude unfamiliar to him, but he also was growing increasingly annoyed with the casual banter. "Shall we take lookout duty at timed intervals?" he asked, hoping to bring the conversation back to the matter at hand.

Although he had made every attempt to hide his irritation, Troy could tell that the captain obviously preferred a more orderly approach to the proceedings. "Yeah," he agreed. "I don't need to tell you, it's cold out there and I suspect there's quite a bit of snow piled up in those hills." Troy stood erect and directed his comments to the group of soldiers. "We have some thermal gear, but nothing that's going to keep you dry for too long. If we break into teams of two, and rotate every two hours, it should be good enough to keep everybody relatively warm and dry. Understood?"

"What about weapons, Sarge?" Hitch asked.

"Everybody carries a sidearm, but that's it," Troy ordered. "As long as we remain undetected, we won't even need any guns."

"And if we don't 'remain undetected?'" Dietrich asked solemnly.

Troy studied the captain for a moment. He didn't think Dietrich was going to like his answer. "Then you play it by ear, and get out the best way you know how."

Remaining expressionless, Dietrich slowly nodded. "I was afraid you would say that," he answered, confirming both his own fears and Troy's expectations.

Troy used the remainder of the meeting to issue what little equipment the Rat Patrol had brought with them. He took special pleasure in handing Dietrich his gun - a P08 Luger.

Hans hesitated before accepting the pistol. It had been years since he had held a service revolver in his hand, and the memories it brought back were not entirely welcome.

"I thought you might like something you'd feel comfortable with," Troy stated matter-of-factly, but his off-handed manner could not belie the significance of this moment.

It was a generous gesture on the sergeant's part - requisitioning a captured weapon could not have been easy. Dietrich would have felt honored if he didn't suspect the gun had once been owned by a fellow soldier who had been either captured or killed. Despite his misgivings, he had to admit the pistol felt good in his hands. There was a certain sense of balance, a blend of precision and form that felt so normal his fingers instinctively folded around the handgrip.

Dietrich, however, considered his response to be frighteningly effortless and entirely unnatural. Swallowing with difficulty, he took a deep breath and placed the pistol in the shoulder harness Troy had handed him. Hans looked at Troy and wondered if the sergeant ever had experienced the doubt he was feeling at this moment. He pushed the thought aside; philosophical questions would wait for another time.

"Thank you, Sergeant," he said, keeping his response honest and simple. "I shall try not to use it."

Troy nodded in understanding. He guessed it had been a while since the captain had used a firearm; he hoped Dietrich's proficiency with a weapon had not diminished over time. The lives of 250 men, as well as their own depended on it.

The impromptu meeting concluded with everyone agreeing to meet at six o'clock the next morning. As the others went off in search of dinner, Troy pulled Dietrich aside. The captain momentarily lost his balance, and Troy noted a few beads of perspiration on the man's lip. The captain instantly wiped them away.

"We need to talk," he instructed Dietrich, then cast a glance at Martin. "Without the boy."

Hans didn't doubt that the sergeant wanted to speak with him privately. Although he imagined it involved Martin, he had learned not to second-guess Troy. "Why don't you go get something to eat," he suggested to Martin, adding before the boy could object, "I'll be along shortly."

Surprisingly, Martin's only answer was an exaggerated sigh of displeasure before he turned to follow the rest of the men down the stairs. Troy watched as the teenager disappeared to the floor below. "I don't want that kid involved." The sergeant looked Dietrich squarely in the eye - he wasn't going to take "no" for an answer.

Hans could see Sergeant Troy was in no mood for an argument. For that matter, Dietrich thought, neither was he. "I shall do my best to keep him out of harm's way," he replied, then started for the door, unconcerned if Troy was satisfied with his guarantee.

"Your 'best' isn't good enough," Troy snapped, abruptly catching the captain's arm to prevent him from leaving the room. Again he noticed the perspiration and he became concerned when Dietrich anxiously touched his hand to his forehead. "Are you all right?" he asked, momentarily distracted from the Martin Mueller issue.

Dietrich caught the look of concern in Troy's face, and inexplicably angered by the sudden attention he was receiving, he pulled his arm from Troy's grasp. "Unless I am falling off of a cliff, Sergeant," he hissed in warning, "don't ever grasp me like that again." He attempted, again, to leave the room.

Heeding the captain's admonition, Troy nonetheless stepped in front of Dietrich to impede his progress. "If you're sick," he cautioned Herr Hauptmann, "I want to know now!"

Dietrich returned Troy's glare, but wasn't willing to admit defeat. "I'm fine," he replied with less enthusiasm that he would have liked. He attributed his throbbing head and general fatigue to hunger and lack of sleep; the fever, he hoped, was a temporary condition. Besides, he reasoned, even if he had picked up a virus, he wanted to be the judge of whether or not he was too ill to continue, not Sergeant Troy.

Troy knew Dietrich was lying, but he also trusted him to put the welfare of the rest of the men over his own stubborn self-interest. Still, he insisted on a straight answer. "Then why don't I believe you?"

"Because you are a very suspicious man," Dietrich replied.

Straining to end the conversation, as well as avoid Troy's inquiries, Hans pushed his way past the American and made his way to the stairs. He would have to be especially careful not to show any signs of weakness in front of Troy, or the entire project would be in jeopardy. Slowly negotiating the stairs to the main room of the inn, Hans worried that he might need Martin's help now more than ever before.

Dinner consisted of limp, reheated cabbage, old bread, and chunks of meat, cooked beyond recognition. Troy watched as Dietrich noncommittally pushed the food around on his plate. Admittedly, the meal was barely palatable, but he felt the captain's reluctance to eat involved more than the insult to his taste buds.

Tully stabbed a piece of meat with his fork and eyed it suspiciously. "Anybody seen that dog?" he asked, examining the red, grainy morsel in the dim light.

Groaning, Hitch tossed his fork noisily onto the plate. The taste made the mystery meat hard enough to swallow; the idea that it might be canine made it impossible for Hitch to finish. "Thanks a lot, Tully," he grumbled.

"My pleasure," Tully answered pleasantly, knowing he had ruined Hitch's meal, just like he'd planned.

Martin cautiously laughed under his breath. If they found the idea of eating dog-meat repulsive, he was certain the two corporals would have starved to death in his situation.

"Think that's funny, kid?" Tully playfully tapped Martin's arm. "You never can be too sure, ya know?"

Martin smiled shyly. Although they were strangers, he was beginning to feel comfortable in the company of the Americans. "I have had worse," he reminded Corporal Pettigrew.

Pettigrew's smile faded. Instinctively, he reached over to pat the boy's head. "I guess you have," he added, sympathetically.

The atmosphere of camaraderie was interrupted by Captain Dietrich as he quietly rose from the table. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen." He appeared to stagger slightly as he stood up, but closing his eyes, he caught his balance. "I'll be in my room if I'm needed." What little he had eaten tasted bad enough; the conversation combined with the foul odor of the meat finally forced him to retreat.

Martin immediately dropped his fork and left the table to follow Dietrich. Moffitt stared after the pair. "Was it something we said?" he asked wryly, but his sarcasm could not conceal his concern.

Halfway up the stairs, Dietrich turned slowly to find Martin at his heels. "Please don't follow me around like a lost puppy," he implored the boy.

Martin could see the fatigue in the slope of Dietrich's shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. Remaining where he stood, he refused to be dismissed. "Please, let me help you."

If he had not known the rest of the party could see every move he made, Hans would have leaned against the wall as he debated with Martin. However, to maintain his show of strength, he forced himself to stand erect. "If you insist on leaving with me, they will know something is wrong," Dietrich patiently explained. "Troy already suspects."

He waited a moment for Martin to grasp the volatile nature of the situation. "Go back and finish your dinner," he ordered the young man kindly. "Just tell them I'm tired or something." At this point, he really didn't care what excuse Martin used; his head was beginning to swim and he closed his eyes against the nausea building within.

Martin understood the impact the captain's illness would have on the rest of the men, and he understood the need for secrecy. But he didn't understand why he felt so useless. Realizing Herr Dietrich was correct, he resigned himself to playing the apathetic young man they had all come to expect . . . even though it was a role he no longer wanted to fill.

Jack Moffitt watched as Martin made his way back to the dinner table. The anger that had been the boy's only self-defense a day ago somehow had been overruled by a steadfast interest in Hauptmann Dietrich's welfare. The sudden change in Martin's attitude, plus Troy's obvious concern, set off warning signals in Moffitt's head. Something was going wrong.

A pointed look in Troy's direction caught Sam's attention. Moffitt motioned his head in the direction of the door as a silent request for a impromptu conference.

Nodding his consent, Troy slipped out the front door to join Moffitt in the cold night air. Tully and Hitch assigned themselves the task of distracting Martin.

"What's going on?" Moffitt asked directly as Troy closed the front door to the inn. The British sergeant's easy-going manner had disappeared, replaced by a no-nonsense demeanor.

"I wish I knew," Troy answered, honestly. He lit a cigarette and watched as the smoke hung heavily in the damp air. Even in the pale moonlight, he could see Moffitt wasn't going to settle for such an inexact answer. "My guess is the captain's sick and they're trying to keep it between the two of them."

Moffitt recalled Dietrich's lack of appetite at dinner, as well as his ashen color, and arrived at the same conclusion as Troy. That certainly explained the change in Martin's behavior. Taking a deep breath, he considered their alternatives, then decided there were none.

"This isn't good," he murmured to himself.

"No," Troy agreed, although he knew Moffitt didn't need his opinion. "And you know he won't accept help from us."

"And he's the only one who knows if he's fit for the task," Moffitt reflected. He noted a distinct change in Troy's expression. "What?"

"You go talk to him-"

"Me?" Moffitt interrupted incredulously. "Why would he talk to me?"

"He likes you," Troy argued. "You two speak the same language, you come from the same stock." He could see Moffitt wasn't convinced. "You're the only one of us with any kind of medical knowledge - just see if you can tell what's wrong."

"I'm not a physician," Moffitt pointed out needlessly. He thought he detected a mischievous twinkle in Troy's eye.

"I know," the American replied. "Just see if you can tell how bad he is."

Moffitt looked at Troy in mock disgust. He didn't like playing the role of a medical doctor, although his limited scientific background had come in handy during the war. Still, he realized Troy needed an objective evaluation. "Okay," he agreed at last. "But what do I talk about?"

The mischief in Troy's eyes spread to his crooked grin. "Ask him what kind of champagne he likes."

Physically drained, Dietrich sat on the edge of the bed and looked longingly at the pillow. Resisting the urge to fall onto the lumpy mattress, he closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands. If he gave into the temptation now, he would be admitting defeat, and he had no intention of surrendering to the illness. Wearily, he raised his head at the sound of a knock on the door, unable to imagine what was so urgent that it wouldn't wait until morning.

"Come in," he said in the best English accent he could muster. He did not know who was standing on the other side of the door, and thought it wise to use a "safe" language.

The door opened slowly as Sergeant Moffitt's head tentatively appeared around the corner. "Room service," he announced cheerfully, balancing a bowl on the tray in his hands. Entering the room, he kicked the door closed behind him. The look of astonishment on the captain's face was worth the effort it had taken to convince the Russian cook to heat a pot of soup.

Abandoning any hope of privacy, Hans closed his eyes and shook his head. He was too tired to be angry and too sick to protest against the Englishman's presence. He suspected the visit had not been of the sergeant's own volition.

When, at length, he turned to look at Moffitt, he found him uncomfortably waiting, tray in hand. "Let me guess, Sergeant. . ." His worn sigh was underscored with a touch of irritation. ". . . Sergeant Troy sent you." Dietrich raised his eyebrows in question.

Growing impatient, Moffitt walked past the captain and set the tray on the bedside table. Without looking at Dietrich he admitted, "Yes." Turning to face the German, Moffitt continued, "He's worried about you . . . as I am."

Feeling as if he were an insect under microscopic examination, Dietrich began to chafe. "I am fine!" he vehemently repeated. "I don't understand why Troy won't accept my word-"

"Captain," Moffitt cut Dietrich short forcefully. "Our lives - the lives of those POWs - all depend on your ability to execute your end of the bargain. We can't send you in there if you're too sick to complete the escape."

Dietrich looked up at Moffitt looming over him. "Don't you think I know that?" he asked, outraged at being treated as a first-year cadet. "Believe me, Sergeant, I would be the first to pull out if I thought I wasn't upholding my responsibilities."

Moffitt pulled the wooden chair from the corner of the room and sat at Dietrich's bedside. "Captain," he began more calmly, "I know there's a lot more at stake for you than just the completion of this mission." Moffitt paused, then added, "My guess is you accepted this assignment for personal reasons, as well as professional."

Dietrich looked everywhere but at Moffitt. The truth was somehow more real - more tangible - coming from the sergeant. Moffitt was right: he did have something to prove to himself, but it had nothing to do with ego or pride. Hauptmann Dietrich's reasons were deeply rooted in culpability and remorse.

"When I became an officer," the captain said softly as he searched his memory for that day that had been so important to him at one time, "I swore an oath to serve my country and my fellow soldiers." Dietrich stared at the floor, his hands clasped in front of him. "I have failed in one aspect of that promise," he said, the words leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Dietrich looked determinedly at Sergeant Moffitt, "I will not fail in the other."

Moffitt studied the captain's face for a moment. He was thin and pale; the discoloration under his eyes emphasized the intensity in his face. But confidence was inherent in the firm set of his jaw, evidence of his unshakable tenacity. There was no need for further discussion; Moffitt had no doubt Hauptmann Hans Dietrich was capable of accomplishing the task before him.

"Perhaps you should eat something," he said, nodding in the direction of the tray on the table. "I took a lot of verbal abuse from the cook to get that for you."

Dietrich rose just enough to take the tray and hold it on his lap. "'Verbal abuse'?" he asked curiously as he removed the towel that covered the bowl.

"Well, I think it must've been," Moffitt replied, his amusement evident in his voice. "It was all in Russian."

Dietrich's first impulse was to set the soup aside but, feeling he owed it to the sergeant, he decided to feign an attempt to eat some of it. He winced as the aroma rising from the bowl's contents assaulted his sense of smell. Looking at Moffitt as if to ask if the sergeant really expected him to eat this, he sarcastically voiced his gratitude, "You shouldn't have." It was the only polite thing he could think of to say.

Moffitt shrugged innocently. "I think it's some sort of broth that once contained a bit of fish." He could see the captain's reluctance to taste the watery concoction. "It would make Troy very happy if you'd eat it," he pointed out in hopes of convincing Captain Dietrich to eat something.

"I wouldn't want to disappoint the sergeant," Hans replied glibly. Deciding that the faster he ate this miserable consommé, the quicker he would be rid of his guest, Dietrich bravely dipped the spoon, then raised it as a mock toast. "Here's to Sergeant Troy." He saluted the absent sergeant by swallowing the spoonful of soup with his eyes tightly closed.

Lying on his side, Dietrich opened first one eye and then the other. His mouth was dry and he was sweating profusely. The room was dark; he could hear regular, deep breathing coming from Martin as he slept in the bed opposite him. Hans fumbled for his watch on the bedside stand. When his eyes finally focused on the thin silver hands, he saw it was close to 3:30 a.m.

The captain threw off the heavy blanket and was surprised to find himself still fully dressed. He attempted to sit up, but when his head refused to follow the rest of his body, he decided to remain where he was. Turning on his back, he placed his right arm across his forehead and tried to recall Sergeant Moffitt's visit. He remembered parts of their conversation; they had talked for some time, even after Hans gave up on the soup. But he didn't remember the sergeant leaving.

Dietrich had always found Sergeant Moffitt a bit puzzling. The Englishman was something of a chameleon. Erudite and quietly self-confident, there was an elegance about the man that was lacking in his American counterparts. Yet he could adapt to any situation and be as tough and brutally calculating as any American commando. Memories of his many encounters with the Rat Patrol came flooding back in waves of unwelcome recollection. Hans began to shiver uncontrollably.

Pulling the blanket tightly around himself, he turned onto his side and curled into a fetal position, taking advantage of what little warmth his body could generate. He tried to concentrate on the day before him, but his mind insisted on jumping between the past and present; images of his home, Ilsa, and Gretchen became inexplicably intertwined with memories of arduous battles, the last desperate days in the oppressive desert, and his subsequent surrender to the British Eighth Army.

The familiar loneliness was the only factor that connected past and present. An unbearable emptiness overwhelmed him as he shut his eyes against the longing and the pain. Finally, when Hans thought he could not endure another moment of the mental torment, exhaustion took its toll and he gratefully drifted off to sleep.

A gentle hand shook Dietrich from his sleep. Reluctantly opening his eyes, he found Martin at his bedside, bathed in a dazzling ray of sunlight, streaming through the window. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, then he realized the warmth of the morning sun meant he had overslept the six o'clock rendezvous.

"What time is it?" he asked Martin, hurriedly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. _Not that it matters_, he thought disgustedly. Troy already had enough doubts about his ability to continue. Missing the meeting this morning would only give the sergeant more ammunition to summarily dismiss him and put an end to the entire mission.

"Nine o'clock," Martin replied. Placing a restraining hand on Herr Hauptmann's shoulder, he attempted to stop Dietrich from getting out of bed. "Sergeant Moffitt and Corporal Pettigrew have already left; Sergeant Troy thought it would be best to allow you to rest."

Shaking off the boy's hand, Dietrich threw an agitated glance in Martin's direction. Muttering a string of curse words under his breath, he remained seated, taking the opportunity to collect his thoughts. "What time did they leave?" he asked, gruffly.

"It was close to eight o'clock, I think," Martin responded warily.

_Eight,_ Dietrich thought. It was nine now; that gave him an hour to clean up and meet Troy at ten. "Hand me a clean shirt, please," Hans said, slightly mollified. He wasn't comfortable with the idea of receiving special treatment, but it appeared no harm had been done. The added rest had been desperately needed, even if it meant he now owed Troy a debt of gratitude.

Martin fished a shirt out of Dietrich's bag and handed it to him. "I brought you some tea and bread," he said, indicating the covered tray next to the bed. "The Americans didn't seem to think the coffee was worth the effort."

Unable to predict the captain's next response, he then backed away a few steps. Martin knew Dietrich was more angry at himself than at him, but he didn't want to be in the line of fire.

Dietrich glanced at the tray, then back at Martin. He had been so preoccupied with his own tardiness that he had completely missed Martin's gesture of kindness. Ilsa often accused him of missing the forest for the trees, and again, he had proved his wife correct. He now felt indebted to several people.

"Thank you, Martin," he murmured, annoyed with himself.

Making himself lay the shirt aside calmly, Hans lifted the corner of the cloth that covered a small teapot, a few pieces of hard-crusted bread, and a glass tea cup sitting in a single-handled silver base. Dietrich's stomach was still protesting the previous night's meal; he was uncertain whether his digestive system was prepared for another assault so soon.

Hans' hand shook weakly, but he managed to pour the tea without spilling it. Tentatively testing the hot liquid, he found it to be equal to his expectations - strong and sweet - typical of every glass of Russian tea he had ever tasted.

As he busied himself with straightening his bed, Martin carefully watched Herr Dietrich nurse the hot tea. The captain seemed better this morning, even if he was less than enthusiastic about his morning meal. Although his strength was obviously depleted by his illness, the dark circles under Dietrich's eyes were less visible, and a touch of color had returned to his face. Martin was mildly surprised to find that he cared about the captain and the others. So much of his life had been spent in the pursuit of self-preservation that concern for others felt somewhat unnatural to him. Disturbed by the results of his self-examination, he wondered why this particular emotion had chosen to resurrect itself at this time. Perhaps it had something to do with the friendliness of the Americans, or with the respect and consideration Hauptmann Dietrich had shown him. Most likely, he thought, it was because he felt as if he belonged with what he considered a rag-tag group of misfits. Lost in concentration, a stifled cough from the other side of the room distracted Martin from his musings.

As the cough worsened, Dietrich's hand groped for the poorly mended ribs on his left side. With his other hand, he fumbled to replace the glass of tea on the bedside table. Missing the table by a mere fraction of an inch, the glass fell to the wooden floor and shattered at his feet. Hans noticed Martin out of the corner of his eye, as the fit of coughing subsided. The boy's unwarranted attention made him feel like an invalid. Needing to feel as if he were in control of his increasingly unstable situation, Hans raised his hand to keep the boy from coming any closer.

"It is nothing," he croaked in a whisper as he strove to catch his breath. Taking small, shallow breaths, he closed his eyes against the dull ache in his side. The fit of coughing had come upon him unexpectedly, and it was more the spasm than the resulting pain that had surprised him. As he forced himself to relax, his tense muscles began to ease and his breathing slowed to its natural rhythm. Having won one more skirmish, he now was more determined than ever to fight off the effects of the illness

Martin immediately crouched beside the bed and gingerly picked up the shards of glass. Hauptmann Dietrich was too busy breathing to offer any resistance. Cupping the broken shards in his palm as if they were a delicate flower, he cast a worried glance at the captain before depositing them on the bedside tray. For the first time, he too was beginning to doubt the captain's endurance.

As Dietrich holstered his Luger, a loud knock sounded at the bedroom door. He hurriedly donned his overcoat to conceal the weapon from prying eyes. With a nod of his head, Hans silently ordered Martin to answer the door.

Waiting to be sure that the pistol was safely hidden, Martin cracked the door a few inches to study the visitor on the other side. Sergeant Sam Troy appeared annoyed with the young man's inspection.

"Is the captain up?" he asked disdainfully as he pushed past Martin and into the room. He saw Dietrich visibly relax as he stepped from the shadow and removed the overcoat.

"Yes, Sergeant," Hans replied, equally scornful. "In a manner of speaking, I am 'up.'" He gave Troy a derisive look as he tossed the coat on the bed. "You shouldn't have let me sleep."

Exasperated by Dietrich's stubborn pretense that nothing was wrong, Troy finally lost his patience with the captain. "Look," he growled, mustering all his self-control to keep from shouting, "I know you're sick. All right? Moffitt says you're fit to keep up your end of this deal - that's good enough for me. I trust his opinion, and if it makes any difference to you, I trust you." If his anger was having an effect on Hauptmann Dietrich, he couldn't tell from Dietrich's calm facade.

Hans broke eye contact with Troy and took a step backwards. Finally letting down his guard, he was unsure how to respond.

Realizing he had broken through the captain's defenses, Troy continued more calmly. "You needed the rest, so I asked Moffitt and Tully to take first watch. It's that simple."

Still unwilling to match Troy's gaze, Dietrich raised his head a little as he considered his response. He supposed he deserved the sergeant's admonition. Facing Troy once again, he apologized. "I am sorry, Sergeant. It's just that I don't want my illness to prevent us from seeing this through to the end. It's only some sort of contagion - I'm sure it will pass soon."

Troy was unable to repress a grin. Behind all the _sturm und drung_ was the soul of a real soldier. He couldn't help admiring the man. "We'll get you in and get you out as fast as we can," Sam promised, confirming their unvoiced truce. Then he added whimsically, "Maybe we'll all get home before dinner time."

87


	11. Chapter 11

_**Chapter 11**_

"The roads are rather bad," Sergeant Moffitt explained to the crowd of soldiers gathered in the little room. "We had to travel the last part of the path on foot." Sitting on the bed, he tugged at one snow-encrusted boot and then the other.

Tully nodded his head in agreement. "We dug out a couple of observation points on that hill," he advised Troy and Dietrich as he removed his gloves and unbuttoned his down coat. "But it's pretty damn cold up there." Pettigrew's normally colorless complexion, now ruddy from the cold, attested to the frigid weather.

"Anything worth reporting?" Troy asked.

Moffitt shook his head as he massaged his cold feet, encouraging the blood back into his toes. "Just the normal activities of a POW camp. Roll call, calisthenics, daily chores," he reported, smiling as his feet began to warm up. "A delivery truck came and went . . . food supplies, I suspect." He donned his socks and looked up at Troy. "Pretty much routine stuff."

Troy and Moffitt exchanged a glance when Dietrich tried to muffle an unexpected cough.

"Maybe Captain Dietrich should wait here, Sarge," Hitch innocently suggested, unaware of the agreement between the two men. "You and I can take the next watch by ourselves and report back."

Troy caught Dietrich's stern look of objection, pointedly directed at him. He agreed that it was unwise for Dietrich to subject himself to the harsh weather, but his commitment to the captain had already been made. Ordering Herr Hauptmann to remain behind would be going back on his word; he would have to back up his declaration of trust with his actions.

"Captain Dietrich is going with us," he announced at last, giving the Rat Patrol a look that meant it was pointless to argue with him.

Realizing that he had been holding his breath, Dietrich released a deep sigh of relief when Sergeant Troy made his decision. Whatever else he thought about the American, at least he knew he was a man of his word. He nodded his thanks.

With the question of his participation settled, Hans noticed he was becoming unbearably warm. He didn't know whether it was his down jacket, the temperature of the room, or the recurring fever - he only knew that he needed to breathe some fresh air.

"I'll wait outside," he informed the rest of the group, then hurriedly made his way out of the room and down to the waiting car.

Martin intended to follow the captain, but Troy caught him by the arm. "Hold on, kid," he ordered under his breath when he was certain Captain Dietrich was out of earshot.

Martin squirmed in the grasp. Fearing that he would be left behind, he began to protest, but stopped when he noticed the look of warning in the sergeant's eyes.

Troy waited until the boy settled down. He had not meant to scare him, but he wanted to make sure he had Martin's undivided attention. "I'm not going to waste my breath telling you you can't go," he said, "because I have a special job for you."

The resentment slowly disappeared from Martin's face, replaced by a calculating compliance. Thinking he knew exactly what the sergeant wanted, he jerked his arm from Troy's grasp. "I will not inform on Hauptmann Dietrich for you," he stated vehemently, remaining ardently loyal.

Martin looked behind him. Corporals Hitchcock and Pettigrew had appeared suddenly, standing at his back. He knew he was outnumbered, and as Troy took an intimidating step forward, he took a cautious step backwards, stumbling against the two Americans.

"Don't flatter yourself, kid," Troy grumbled, suspecting the English idiom was lost on the German teen. He leaned towards Martin, their faces inches apart. "I already know more about Hauptmann Hans Dietrich than you could ever guess at." The puzzlement on Martin's face told Troy he had revealed something the boy had never considered. "All I want from you is to let me know how he's doing. Got it?"

Troy stepped back as Martin considered his request. With the added distance between the two, the teen again assumed his arrogant attitude. "You told Herr Dietrich that you trusted him," he pointed out with some rancor. "Is this how you show your trust?"

"I do trust him," Troy reiterated, then continued, "when he's thinking with his head . . . not when he's thinking with his heart." The sergeant stared harshly at Martin for a moment, then added, "From where I stand, it could go either way."

Martin thought he understood what the American was trying to say. He knew there was little that would stop a man who pursued a belief he held in his heart, even when it meant risking his own life. His own tenacity was fueled with such passion, and he suspected Dietrich's perseverance was evidence of an even greater desire to prove his integrity.

"I will do as you ask," he replied, realizing his part in this venture had taken on a greater importance. "But I do not enjoy this."

"Understood," Troy replied, nodding sympathetically. He knew it was a lot to expect from the boy. Until now, Mueller had carried his misplaced loyalty as a testimonial to a promise never realized. Now, when Martin had found someone who would safely guard his allegiance, Troy was asking him to betray the one person in whom he could place his confidence. It would be one of the hardest lessons Martin Mueller would have to learn.

An uncomfortable quiet hung between Dietrich and Martin as they drove to the lookout. Hans suspected Martin's conversation with Sergeant Troy had elicited his self-imposed emotional exile. Whatever their discussion had entailed, he was sure it somehow involved him.

"What did he say to you?" he asked Martin quietly.

Martin was surprised by Herr Dietrich's casual manner. He doubted Troy understood German, but nonetheless watched the sergeant for a moment to gauge his response to Dietrich's question. All he received was a disinterested glance from the American before he answered the captain.

Dietrich coldly observed Martin's cautious reaction. "He doesn't understand German."

Nervously glancing from Troy to the captain, Martin stammered, "Nothing."

Dietrich turned his attention to the world outside his window, carefully considering his response. His head felt twice it's normal size and his patience was running short.

"Don't lie to me, Martin," the captain calmly warned his protégé. Looking at the boy, he stated evenly, "You wouldn't be here now if he didn't have a reason for bringing you."

Martin didn't know how the captain had arrived at the conclusion, but they both knew he was right. He sighed heavily. He would much rather be truthful with Herr Dietrich, because - unlike other adults he had dealt with recently - the man always seemed to know when he was lying.

"He just wants me to keep an eye on you . . . how you are feeling," Martin explained, glad to ease his conscience. He disliked the idea of informing on the captain, and he felt he owed the Americans nothing. Swallowing hard, he waited for Dietrich's reaction.

Hans studied Martin's face for a moment - at least he was telling the truth. "And you, obviously, agreed to it," he stated accusatorily.

Martin immediately took the defensive. "I didn't betray you," he argued, the shadow of righteous denial coloring his tone of voice.

Hans closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, which made his chest tighten in a spasm when he exhaled. Catching his breath, he shook his head in frustration. He had not meant to

implicate the boy; rather, he needed to understand Troy's motives. Even though the two men were supposed to be working together, they could not seem to stop second-guessing each other - mutual suspicion had become second nature to both of them.

"I'm sorry, Martin," Hans apologized. "I did not mean to accuse you of any wrong-doing." Any further explanation, he decided, was better left unsaid.

Martin visibly brightened. He assumed he would be the one to ask pardon, not the captain. His regard for Hauptmann Dietrich increased two-fold. "You can depend on me," he added confidently. "I won't fail you."

Hans was about to advise Martin not to make promises he couldn't keep, but the sanguine expression on the boy's face stopped him. Instead, he smiled gratefully and thanked him. He didn't know why Martin Mueller had this effect on him, or why he had missed the young man's sincerity when they had met over a week ago. He wondered if it was because the boy had dramatically changed in the span of a few days . . . or if it was because he himself had changed.

Hitch gunned the black Mercedes up the steep incline, causing the rear end to weave back and forth on the snow-covered path. The tires of the car began to spin hopelessly, throwing gravel, ice, and snow in every direction. Engaging the safety brake, Hitch looked at Troy in vain. "This is as far as we go," he said, voicing the opinion the rest of the men held.

Troy turned around far enough to address the passengers in the back seat. "We go on foot from here," he instructed the others as Hitch turned off the engine.

Responding to Troy's order, the three men got out of the car and followed the sergeant to retrieve the reconnaissance equipment from the trunk.

Dietrich watched with interest as Troy lifted the false bottom of the boot to reveal a arsenal of weapons, explosives, and miscellaneous field equipment. Accepting the proffered field-glasses, Hans looped the leather strap around his neck. The weight of the binoculars and the slight pull around his neck felt odd, yet strangely familiar. It has been at least two years since he last experienced this particular sensation . . . his field-glasses had been the last of his possessions he had surrendered to the Allies.

Preoccupied with his memories, it took him a moment to realize Troy was handing him a map case. Wordlessly, he opened the container and found the requisite tools - sharpened pencils, a ruler, triangulation compass, and graph paper - needed to configure a rough map of the camp and the surrounding area. Closing the brass fastener, Dietrich watched as the remaining tools were distributed to Corporal Hitchcock and Martin.

With Hitch watching over his shoulder, Troy indicated the spot on the crude map Moffitt had drawn that indicated where the lookout point had been established. "Take the kid and get started," he instructed Hitchcock, as he placed the folded map inside his jacket. "Captain and Dietrich and I will be along shortly."

Hitch nodded his consent and waved at Mueller to follow him up the hill.

As the two younger men began their trek, Troy anxiously looked at Dietrich. "After you," he said, indicating that the captain should precede him up the hill.

Since Troy was the leader of this troop, the captain should have insisted on following him, as a dutiful soldier should. But Dietrich couldn't help accepting what he considered to be a challenge. Graciously nodding once, he passed the American and began the hike up in the elevated slope, more determined than ever not to show any signs of weakness in the sergeant's presence.

Troy shook his head in doubt - _that German's pride is going to get him killed one of these days_, he thought. Trotting up the incline to catch up with the captain, Troy watched Dietrich for any indication that his condition might be worsening. Pleased to find no evidence to support his suspicions, he jogged up the remaining part of the hill to the lookout.

When Troy disappeared over the crest of the hill, Hans stopped. Bending over double, he placed his hands on his knees for support. The air was raw and cold and it burned intensely in his chest when he took a few deep breaths. Closing his eyes, he placed his right hand over his chest, as if it would calm the fire that seared his lungs and elicited a dry, raspy cough. When his breathing became more regular, he straightened as best he could and found Martin watching him.

Wordlessly, Dietrich hesitated, waiting to see how the boy would respond to the scene he had witnessed. He feared that no matter what Martin decided, eventually Troy would learn of this latest episode.

Without hesitation, Martin picked up the map case that had fallen from the captain's shoulder and handed it to him. "Sergeant Troy sent me to make sure you were not having trouble." Without skipping a beat, he added, "I will tell him you are on your way."

Grateful for Martin's discretion, Hans nodded in agreement. "I shall be there shortly," he murmured.

By the time Dietrich arrived at the site, Troy was lying in one of the bare spots left by Tully and Moffitt, his elbows firmly planted shoulder-width apart, peering intensely through his binoculars. Martin and Hitchcock busied themselves with clearing snow from two more areas. Dietrich knelt on the cold, wet ground in the other vacant spot next to Troy. The POW camp was still a good distance away, but the captain could tell by Troy's silence that something definitely was wrong.

"What's wrong?" Hans asked.

Troy moved the binoculars away from his face and bowed his head. "Take a look for yourself," he said, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news.

Dietrich's eyebrows converged as his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. Lying flat on the ground, he too brought his field-glasses to his eyes. Adjusting the lenses, he cursed under his breath when the barbed-wire fence around the perimeter of the camp came into focus.

"_Sheitße!_"

"That's one way of putting it," Troy said, shaking his head in disgust. He looked at the captain, thonking how odd it was to hear the man curse. Troy couldn't help laughing under his breath.

Dietrich sighed in exasperation. "It appears that your Army intelligence left out one important fact-"

"The fence is wire, not concrete like we thought," Troy agreed, completing Dietrich's indictment of the Army's inaccuracy. "This is going to make things tougher."

Dietrich sat back on his knees, removed his cap, and ran his hand through his hair. He briefly thought his head felt unusually warm, but forced himself to concentrate on the latest hurdle in the obstacle course this mission had become. "I don't think I can scale the fence," Dietrich stated, honestly.

"Not with all that barbed-wire," Troy agreed.

Another fit of coughing overtook the captain and Troy waited patiently for the episode to pass, taking advantage of the interlude to consider his alternatives. He doubted whether anyone could climb that fence successfully, even if he were in good health, which the captain definitely wasn't.

Cutting the wire would take too long, and the cut links would eventually be detected by the guards. And Troy feared the repercussions the prisoners might face when the hole was discovered. He could not cancel the operation; they were too close and the lives of those men had become more than a tally of numbers in someone's report.

In a flash of inspiration, the answer came to him. "The truck!" he blurted out excitedly.

Dietrich looked up sharply. "Yes!" he answered confidently, nodding in agreement. The delivery truck Sergeant Moffitt had noted was the only way to infiltrate the camp safely. "We'll have to find out what schedule it runs on-" Dietrich's comments were cut short by a ruckus developing behind him. "Wha-?" He turned to find Corporal Hitchcock running after Martin, who was halfway down the other side of the hill, heading toward the Russian camp.

Dietrich and Troy rose in tandem, following Hitchcock. Martin stumbled on the hillside and Hitch wrestled him to the ground. As the two officers arrived, Hitch pinned Martin in the snow, the boy's cries of indignation muffled by the corporal's hand, clamped firmly over his mouth.

Troy, too, stumbled in the snow and slid to a stop beside Hitch and Mueller. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

Hitchcock struggled to hold Martin down as the young man fought to break free. "I don't know, Sarge," he started, adjusting his hold on Martin. "He was looking through the binoculars, all calm and quiet, then he shouted something and took off down the hill."

Unable to escape Hitch's clutches, Martin pleadingly looked up at Dietrich, who stood over the group. It was impossible to gauge the captain's reaction, but Martin felt that Herr Dietrich was his only hope of vindication.

Unable to discern what had caused such a panic, Hans crouched down beside Martin's head. "If you can speak calmly," he advised the boy, "I will ask Corporal Hitchcock to let you go." The hysteria in Martin's eyes worried Dietrich and the captain couldn't be sure he was being understood. "Do you think you can do that?" he asked again, kindly.

Martin looked wildly from Troy to Hitch. Deciding he didn't have much of a choice, he nodded his head, once.

"Good," Dietrich replied calmly, then looked at Hitch. "Corporal, if you would remove your hand from his mouth, I think we can depend on him not to make any noise."

Hitch glanced at the captain, his doubt clear, then at Troy for confirmation.

Troy had not understood the one-sided conversation Dietrich had had with the boy, but he felt that the captain had control of the situation. He nodded his consent to Hitch.

"My father!" Martin explained excitedly, "I saw my father!"

Dietrich drew himself upright. It was possible Martin was right, but not probable. "Are you sure?" he asked, growing increasingly concerned.

"Of course!" Martin replied hotly, not understanding why the captain would question his veracity. "I know my own father."

"Do you two want to fill me in?" Troy protested. The conversation, until now, had been entirely in German and he did not like being kept in the dark - nor did he like exposing his unit to the prying eyes of the Soviets. "We can't stay here all day."

Dietrich stared at Martin and calculated the odds that the boy was right. Remaining unconvinced, he switched his attention to Troy. "It seems Martin thinks he has found his father." He couldn't keep the skepticism out of his voice, which further agitated the teen.

"I saw him!" Martin yelled, which brought Hitch's hand back over his mouth. He fought the corporal, trying to break free.

Troy looked questioningly at Dietrich. He knew the same questions he had were also running through the captain's mind. "All right," he began, trying to bring some order to the situation. "We don't know if the kid is right or not, but this isn't the time or place to debate the issue."

Dietrich nodded in agreement and reached down to pull Martin to his feet. "I want you to quietly - _and calmly_ - return to the lookout post with us," he ordered, holding the young man inches from his face for emphasis. "Do you understand?" Martin opened his mouth, but the captain cut him off before he could utter a response. "Do you understand?" Dietrich repeated, enunciating each word deliberately to ensure Martin understood his order was not open to debate.

When Martin caught the annoyance in Dietrich's eyes he knew it was useless to argue with the captain. "Yes, sir," he replied, "but-"

"There will be time for explanation," Dietrich interrupted, "but it must wait until we're out of sight."

Reluctantly, Martin allowed himself to be escorted back to the observation area, turning every few feet to look back at the POW camp. He could not explain the mysterious set of circumstances had led him to this remote Lithuanian village, but he did know his association with Hauptmann Dietrich and the Allies had taken a new turn. It was up to him to make sure he used that association wisely, because - no matter what he had promised Dietrich and the others - he had every intention of getting into that POW camp, with or without the captain.

"Any chance the kid is right?" Troy asked as he knelt beside Dietrich, who had busied himself drawing a detailed map of the camp. Martin's explanation of his father's disappearance, and the vague

explanation of his death issued by the German government had left Troy with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

Without looking at the sergeant, Hans replaced the compass and pencils in their appropriate pockets and slowly closed the map case. "I don't know," he replied flatly. "It's been a few years since he's seen his father, and he was quite a distance away." He shook his head, uncertain. "Why would the Wehrmacht issue a death notice on him, instead of an MIA report?"

"Administrative error?" Troy suggested, shrugging. "A case of mistaken identification, maybe? We both know how easy that can be."

Dietrich nodded and looked at Troy. He did, unfortunately, know how easy it was to err in identifying a dead soldier, especially in the midst of battle. "There is something. . ." He hesitated, trying to give order to the misgivings that continued to haunt him about this whole operation.

Troy could tell Dietrich was disturbed by more than Martin's predicament. "What?" he prompted.

Dietrich checked to be sure Martin was out of earshot before he continued. "The name, 'Ernst Mueller,'" he began, "there's something . . . it was important to me at one time," he stammered, "but I don't remember why." Dietrich took a deep breath, the cold air bringing on another episode of coughing.

Troy looked at his watch. It was almost time to change shifts and Dietrich didn't need to be out in the cold any longer than necessary. He stood up and waited for the captain to catch his breath. "It's time to be getting back," he said, leaning over and grabbing Dietrich's arm to help him up from the frigid ground. "We can decide what to do over a cup of coffee."

The sergeant's hand under his arm startled Dietrich, but he offered no resistance as he got to his feet. His head was throbbing and his hands and feet were bitterly cold; anything hot, no matter how bad it tasted, would be welcome.

On the drive back to the inn, Troy reviewed the circumstances that had combined to needlessly complicate the mission. With the benefit of hindsight, he could see that allowing Martin to accompany them had been his first mistake. But at the time he'd had little choice but to bring him along - Hauptmann Dietrich had seen to that whe he had refused to file criminal charges against the boy. He still intended to say something to Dietrich about his strategic flanking maneuver at the checkpoint.

The relationship between Dietrich and Martin puzzled Troy. Whether out of design or necessity, the Mueller boy and Captain Dietrich had developed a fondness for each other. Dietrich demanded - and got - respect from Martin. While it had been given grudgingly at first, there was no mistaking the sincere admiration Martin had for his patron now.

But Troy could only guess at what Dietrich saw in the boy. Somehow the captain had seen past the kid's rough exterior and found something worth salvaging. But whether that salvage operation was Dietrich's effort to redeem Martin, or a metaphor for the captain's personal crusade to redeem his country, Troy was not sure. He only knew that any personal loyalties, real or imagined, were not going to make his job easier.

Upon their return to the inn, the six men met briefly in Troy's room. Tully straddled a wooden chair, and Moffitt leaned against the wall, arms crossed. They both watched with some amusement as their leader struggled with his heavy boots.

Tully immediately lost his smile when Troy shot them both a glance indicating he was in no mood for levity.

"Did you have a look at the fence, then?" Moffitt asked.

"Yeah," Troy groaned, finally pulling off one boot. He tossed the empty shoe aside and began to work on the other. "We've got to find another way to get Dietrich inside the camp."

He glanced at Dietrich, who sat on the foot of the bed still fully dressed in outdoor gear, his back to Troy. He thought Hauptmann Dietrich might take exception to being called only by his surname, but the captain's only response was a pronounced shiver, as he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.

Troy and Moffitt traded a look of worry. Moffitt, too, had taken notice of the captain's non-reaction. It was definitely out of character for Dietrich to ignore Troy's effrontery, even if it was said in innocence.

Troy continued to struggle with his other boot. "We were thinking about-"

"The truck?" Moffit interrupted. When Troy smiled in acknowledgment, he continued. "Good, because I've done some checking while you were gone." The always-efficient Englishman produced a note from the pocket of his shirt. "The truck is owned by one Dimitri Rimkus." He paused, analyzing his own handwriting. "As best I could understand, he is a local grocer who supplies perishable items for the camp."

Looking up, Moffitt happily continued when he found he had everyone's attention. "Seems that he makes a delivery to the camp every other day." Pleased with himself, he folded the slip of paper and placed it back into his pocket. "All we have to do is get the captain on that truck, I'd say."

Troy thoughtfully considered Moffitt's report. He didn't think smuggling Dietrich onto the truck would be difficult. The problem was the timing of the deliveries. "Every two days. . ." Troy muttered to himself.

"That means we'll have to wait until Friday," Dietrich commented quietly. "It's going to put us off schedule."

Moffitt perked up. "Not necessarily." The sergeant's mannerism became more serious as he paced the small open space near the far wall. "As we all know, they've had quite a bit of snow here lately." He felt like the professor he was, addressing a select group of students. "That put Rimkus a bit behind in his deliveries." He stopped pacing to emphasize the importance of his next statement. "There will be another delivery tomorrow in order to get back on schedule."

Troy positively beamed. "I knew I kept you around for some reason, professor," he commented slyly.

"And I thought it was because I'm the only one who can make a decent pot of tea," Moffitt replied, accepting Troy's oblique compliment.

Finally rid of the heavy boots, jacket, and gloves, Troy assumed a commanding stance in the middle of the room. "Okay. It's decided then." He confidently placed his hands on his hips. Nodding at Tully and Moffitt, he said, "You two take the next watch. Make note of any kind of unusual activities and report back here at fourteen-hundred." Waving his hand, Troy indicated the rest of the group. "We'll take the last watch. It's going to get dark early, so we can finish up by sixteen-hundred."

After watching Moffitt and Pettigrew leave, Troy turned to appraise the remaining men. Although he was good at hiding his illness, Captain Dietrich looked like hell. Having removed his jacket, he also had undone the top button of his shirt and was sweating.

Martin sat anxiously on the edge of the other twin bed. He had paid little attention to Moffitt's discussion, preoccupied with designing his own scheme to liberate his father.

Hitch, the only member of the team who seemed to be paying attention, shared Troy's apprehension. "Shouldn't we have said something about the kid's father?" he asked, wondering why such an important piece of information had been held back from Tully and Moffitt.

"I'll tell them later," Troy assured Hitch. He understood the corporal's puzzlement - the Rat Patrol had always functioned as a team, with no secrets. "I don't think it's important right now."

Martin leaped up from where he sat on the bed. "What do you mean?" he shouted at Troy. He would have crossed the room to face the sergeant, but Hitch's arm around his neck prevented him from doing so. "He is my father!" Martin continued. "He is extremely important! I will rescue him myself, if-"

"Martin! Enough!" In one fluid movement, Dietrich rose and turned towards Martin. He doubted he could explain the importance of following protocol in this matter. The boy was too emotionally charged to listen to reason, and he was too ill to be tactful. "We are here to rescue _all_ of those men, not only your-" Dietrich stopped mid-sentence. In a flash of clarity, he suddenly understood the final piece of the puzzle. Everything snapped into place at once. As he frantically glanced about the room, his mind reeled, melding past memories with present knowledge, leaving only confusion to reign where there was once order; disbelief where there was once conviction.

Troy watched in puzzlement as the captain seemed to search for his bearings. He had never seen Dietrich so uncertain. The man who he considered the paragon of control now appeared to be lurching in every direction for answers that were not forthcoming.

Even Martin seemed to be taken back by the captain's sudden distraction. "What?" he urgently pleaded. "What is it?"

Dietrich glanced at Troy, as a warning not to interfere, then at Hitch who still held Martin with one arm around his shoulders. "Leave!" The command was not a request, but an order.

"Now!" Dietrich demanded irritably when Hitch hesitated.

Without waiting for confirmation from Troy, Hitch grabbed Martin by the arm and escorted the boy out of the room. Too shocked by the sudden turn of events, the teen did not offer much resistance. However, he did manage one indignant look before leaving. Whatever Hauptmann Dietrich knew was important and his being ordered to leave the room meant that the new information involved his father.

Troy calmly closed the door behind Hitch, expecting Dietrich to explain his bizarre behavior. Instead, the captain violently charged Troy, pinning the sergeant against the wall, his arm strategically placed under the American's chin, uncomfortably heavy against his windpipe.

"I thought you supposedly trusted me, Sergeant," Dietrich growled accusingly.

Troy attempted to break free, but Dietrich only tightened his hold. From the strength behind Hauptmann Dietrich's grip, he guessed the captain was running on pure adrenaline. "What the hell are you talking about?" he gasped.

"Things have suddenly become abundantly clear," the captain hissed between clenched teeth.

Troy grabbed Dietrich's arm and successfully pushed the captain hard enough to throw him onto the bed.

Momentarily stunned, Dietrich was unable to prevent Troy from pinning his arms to the mattress.

"Give me a clue, here, Captain!" Troy snarled, "because you're not making any sense."

Dietrich searched Troy's face. The anger flashing in the sergeant's eyes contrasted with his absolute bewilderment. He was momentarily taken aback. "You don't know anything about this, do you?" he asked incredulously.

"About _what_?" The captain's ambiguity was beginning to wear thin, as was Troy's patience.

Dietrich ceased struggling. "Ernst Mueller."

"The kid's father?" Troy shrugged as he relaxed his grip on the captain. "What about him?"

"'The kid's father,'" Dietrich replied, mimicking Troy's slang, "is a traitor . . . a spy. He was wanted for treason by the Third Reich."

The two men remained motionless as Troy considered the ramifications of Dietrich's disclosure. Releasing the captain, Troy slowly backed away from the bed. He stared in disbelief at the German, sitting tiredly on the edge of the mattress. "That's why you remembered the name."

Closing his eyes, Dietrich nodded wearily. "His name appeared in numerous communiqués I routinely received from Berlin. Most of the information pertained to the war in Europe; I paid only cursory attention to them."

Troy began pacing nervously, his conversation with Major Armstrong at the outset of this mission replaying in his mind. He stopped to address the captain. "I had a talk with Major Armstrong before our first meeting. He said something odd . . . that there was something more to this mission and that I should know about it."

Dietrich looked up at Troy. "He just never said what that 'something' was," he replied, his voice lacking any trace of surprise.

"No," Troy replied glumly. "I guess he figured if I found out, I wouldn't ask you to get involved." Not only was Troy guilty of coercing Dietrich into volunteering his services, but now, it seemed, he had asked him to risk his life in order to rescue a traitor to his country.

"It seems we have both been duped, Sergeant," Dietrich said knowingly as he watched Troy begin to pace again. "The question now is, what shall we do about it?"

"You're not suggesting that we back out, are you?" Troy asked.

The sergeant knew from experience that the captain would not turn back, but he remained worried. He wouldn't blame Dietrich if he wanted to bow out. The man was sick, he had been deceived

by a group of men he didn't trust in the first place, and now he was required to rescue a traitor - the father of the boy he had taken under his wing. Only the fate of the other prisoners might influence the captain's decision now.

Dietrich rose from the bed and walked to the dresser. Even in the eroded mirror, he could see that he looked frightful. But it wasn't his outward appearance that distracted him, it was the struggle raging within. Part of him wished only to go back to the safety of his home and family. His military service had ended the day Admiral Döenitz surrendered to the Allies; the United States had no right to involve him in their political machinations.

True, he had been given a choice, but it was a choice that could result in only one conclusion. Whether it was ego, duty, honor, or simple bad judgment that had influenced his decision, he couldn't remember. Perhaps it had been a combination of all those things. And now he was caught - another pawn in the game the United States was playing with Russia. And all to secure the release of a traitor without revealing his identity.

But no matter what importance the United States placed on Ernst Mueller, Dietrich placed an even greater value on the lives of the remaining prisoners. If for no other reason other than to spite the Allies, he would ensure that the men being held captive in this remote part of the world would return home.

With his head bowed, Dietrich heavily sighed. "No, Sergeant," he answered at last. Turning to face Troy, he leaned against the dresser. "We shall proceed as planned. I will personally make certain that those men get home safely. You have my word."

Troy slowly nodded. He didn't need Dietrich's word on the matter. The look of determination on the captain's drawn face would be enough of a guarantee for anyone.

96


	12. Chapter 12

_**Chapter 12**_

Sitting on the rough wooden bench that provided seating at the equally rough table, Dietrich held his hand to his chest as the last dregs of cigarette smoke burned down his throat. Looking up, he ground out the butt as Troy approached, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.

Troy surreptitiously glanced at the captain's hand, placed as if to keep the pain from spreading any further. "American cigarettes are not the cure for the common cold," he noted disparagingly, setting one mug in front of Dietrich as he took the seat across the table. The sergeant leaned over the table and snatched his cigarettes out of the man's reach.

"Yes, I know," Dietrich readily agreed, "but I couldn't pass up the opportunity."

He smiled at the irony of receiving medical advice from the man who, given the opportunity two years ago, would have been more likely to put a bullet through his head. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the aroma of the thin, brown liquid. It didn't smell like any coffee he had ever had in the past, but it was hot and he was grateful for that much. He grasped the ceramic mug with both hands. The room was cold, but by warming his hands, he hoped the rest of his body would respond in kind.

"What are we going to do about the Mueller kid?" Troy asked, grimacing at the bitter taste the coffee had left behind.

Dietrich thought he should point out that the coffee made a better hand warmer than a drink, but assumed Troy had already discovered that fact for himself. "What do you mean, 'we'?" he asked, watching the sergeant try to dispel the taste from his mouth.

Troy's gaze remained fixed on the mug in front of him, as if he were attempting to analyze the contents of the cup, then he looked up at Dietrich. "Okay," he conceded, "what are _you_ going to do about the Mueller kid?"

Leaning back against the cold, plaster wall, Dietrich didn't make the effort to meet the sergeant's gaze. Troy's acknowledgment that Martin was his problem didn't make his position any more enjoyable. Briefly closing his eyes, he shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted. "No matter what I say, he won't believe me. He has this exaggerated opinion of his father as some sort of national hero. How can I tell him his father is a traitor?"

"It's the truth," Troy replied objectively, then added as an afterthought, "Does it matter right now?"

Dietrich studied Troy for a moment. He couldn't tell if the sergeant was referring to the Allies' duplicity or the situation with Martin. He guessed it was both. "The truth always matters," he responded, daring the American to dispute his reasoning in either case.

Returning the captain's glare, Troy decided this was not the time to debate philosophies. Instead, he decided to appeal to Dietrich's logic. "If you tell Martin his old man is a traitor, what good will it do?"

"Sergeant. . ." Dietrich calmly rested his forearms on the table, thoughtfully clasping his hands together. "This boy has been lied to all of his life. He needs to know there is one person who will be honest with him."

"Captain," Troy continued aggressively, "this project isn't about you and Martin, or Martin and his father. I can't let-"

"I don't need to be reminded of my responsibilities," Dietrich snapped, interrupting. He knew where his duty lay, but he also held himself accountable for Martin.

A heavy silence hung between the two men, allowing each the time to collect himself.

"Tell him," Troy decided, finally. "Like you said, he won't believe you. That way you'll have told him the truth, and, essentially, nothing will have changed."

Dietrich nodded in agreement. "I don't relish doing it," he quietly murmured. No matter what Martin might admit, the truth about his father, especially coming from Hans, would plant a seed of doubt. From that seed would sprout animosity and, contrary to what Sergeant Troy thought, the relationship between Martin and Hans would be changed forever.

Martin was waiting for Dietrich when he arrived back at their room. Immediately jumping up, he confronted the captain before he closed the door completely. "What is it?" the teen demanded angrily. "What do you know about my father?"

Martin's eyes were wide with expectation, his body tense with anticipation. "Please, sit down," Dietrich quietly asked, closing the door. The boy would have to calm down before he could explain. At this point, Martin was much too excited to listen to reason.

Martin was about to object, but the stern look on Herr Dietrich's face made him reconsider. "This is very serious, isn't it?" he asked, suddenly afraid of whatever secret the captain possessed.

Dietrich nodded his head, looking sympathetically at Martin. "Yes, it is."

"My father?" Martin asked, "is he well?"

Pacing the floor with his hands clasped behind his back, Hans replied, "I don't know, Martin." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. The boy was jumping ahead of him, misinterpreting his knowledge of the situation. "What I know about your father concerns events of a few years ago."

Watching Martin sitting on the edge of the bed, Dietrich waited for him to digest the information. He noticed Martin visibly relax, obviously taking comfort in the assumption that whatever mystery surrounded his father and Captain Dietrich it did not directly impact on their present circumstance. With his head bowed, he wearily massaged the back of his neck.

Then, pacing again, Dietrich continued his explanation of the events as he remembered them. "While I was in North Africa," he began, culling his memories of the day-to-day activities in the desert, "I routinely received communiqués from Berlin." Hans glanced at Martin to be sure he understood. Satisfied that the boy was paying attention, he continued. "They were primarily updates - reports of Allied troop movements, Luftwaffe activities, news of the war on the eastern front. Most of it was propaganda, I suspect, but-"

"What does this have to do my father, Herr Hauptmann?" Martin asked impatiently.

Dietrich stopped pacing. He couldn't blame the boy for being anxious, but he was determined to finish the speech as he had rehearsed it. "But," he continued, "the most relevant information was issued by SS intelligence."

Martin opened his mouth to question where this was leading, but Hans raised a hand to stop him. "That is where I first saw your father's name," the captain said.

The puzzled look on Martin's face registered complete confusion. Then, as he processed the revelation, he tried to justify the SS's interest in his father. "He was working for the SS." It was the only explanation . . . it had to be.

Dietrich sighed heavily. He was beginning to feel lightheaded; the only thing he wanted to do was lie down. But he had started this and it was essential that he finish. His lips pressed tightly together, he closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at Martin. Shaking his head, he finally replied, "No, Martin. He wasn't working for the SS."

Dietrich could see that none of this was making sense to the young man; he would have to fill in all of the sordid details. Pulling the chair up to the bedside, he stared at the floor for a moment, trying to find the right words to explain the reports to the apprehensive teen.

"The SS regularly circulated a list of people they suspected of any wrong-doings. Some of them were petty thieves, some hardened criminals, some were just civilians who dared to challenge the dictums of the Third Reich."

The anxiety level in the room continued to rise. Martin repeatedly wiped his moist hands on his pant legs, nervously anticipating the inevitable. His father was neither a thief nor a criminal; that left only one option, one which he refused to consider.

Dietrich could tell by Martin's physical reaction that he suspected the truth but could not admit it to himself. It fell to the captain to give voice to Martin's doubt, no matter how negatively the truth would affect him. Hans swallowed hard; he couldn't count the times he had been caught in this position - the bearer of unwanted news to another unsuspecting bystander. Only this time, it was more difficult, more personal. Hard-won experience told him it was best to be simple and straightforward.

"Martin," he said kindly, to avoid troubling the boy more than necessary, "your father was wanted for treason."

"No," Martin murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. The blank expression on his face quickly replaced by rage. "No!" he yelled, rising from the bed. "You are lying! My father was a loyal German soldier!"

Hans quickly rose from the chair, taking a step back to put some distance between himself and the incensed young man. At any other time, the boy would be no match for the captain, but Dietrich's current physical condition warranted caution. Martin was bordering on hysteria; he couldn't chance his landing any blows, intentional or not.

"Martin," Dietrich said calmly, "I am not lying to you. You know I wouldn't do that." He only hoped Martin was still listening as he circled the room like a caged animal with no outlet for his aggression.

Closing his eyes, Martin held his hands to his temples as if to dull the chaos rampaging through his mind. "Quiet! Quiet!" he screamed, unable to control his confusion.

The captain's accusations fought with Martin's denials; distant memories clashed with the present. He didn't understand why Hauptmann Dietrich was lying to him; he didn't understand the charge of treason against his father. Perhaps the captain was in league with the Americans. Perhaps it was a scheme to keep him from attempting to infiltrate the camp.

But he trusted Herr Dietrich; he respected him as a soldier and a friend. Why had Dietrich picked this particular time to turn against him - now, when he was so close to accomplishing his goal?

Stinging tears welled in Martin's eyes as he finally looked at Dietrich. "Why are you trying to keep me from my father?" he asked like a bewildered child.

"I'm not trying to keep you from anyone," Hans said as he cautiously approached the distraught teenager. "I'm not saying these things to hurt you, but you have to know the truth."

"But it's _not_ the truth!" Martin cried out angrily.

Hans was now dealing with his own sense of frustration. There had to be a way of convincing Martin of his father's duplicity, but he needed proof. Martin needed to see something tangible . . . something in black and white. However, the only evidence Dietrich had to offer was his memories, which were incomplete at best.

The SS had made it their business to engineer havoc and suspicion among civilians and soldiers alike. It would not have been unusual for one of Ernst Mueller's comrades to fabricate evidence that would convict him of treason in the eyes of the SS. Yet some elusive memory remained that convinced Hans this was not the case. There was some condemning piece of information he had witnessed or read . . . something that had removed any doubt of Mueller's guilt.

Grabbing Martin by the arms, he forced the young man to look him in the eye. "You are only partly correct," Dietrich caustically agreed, his patience growing short. "It's not the entire truth." He finally remembered the thread of connections that weaved through his memory, ending with Ernst Mueller. "Your father was caught carrying secret dossiers to the Russians." He gave Martin a shake when the boy shied away from him. "I had a friend who was stationed near Königsberg - he was there when your father was arrested. He relayed the whole story to me." Hans paused when Martin fearfully froze in his grasp. "Martin," he continued more gently, "my friend had no reason to lie to me. When your father escaped, he must have gone back to the Russians, who promptly delivered him to a prisoner of war camp."

Martin abruptly realized this meant the Americans had sent Hauptmann Dietrich and the Rat Patrol, to free the German POWs, and to retrieve his father, which confirmed Martin's fear. His father was a traitor. The awful realization only served to fuel his denial.

Breaking free of the captain's hold, Martin drove his shoulder into the middle of Dietrich's chest, throwing him against the corner of the dresser. He could not listen to any more explanations and would not accept the truth. "It's not true!" he exclaimed as he rushed past Dietrich. "You are all wrong!"

Yanking open the door, Martin glanced back at Dietrich, who remained on his hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air. The part of Martin that had befriended the captain told him to stay and apologize for the wrong he'd done; the frightened and bewildered part commanded him to run. Angry and disoriented, the teen chose to flee down the stairs and out of the front door to a much colder world than the one he had just left.

Sam Troy looked up as Martin rushed by him in a blur. The absence of Herr Hauptmann in hot pursuit set off warning bells in Troy's head. Hurrying to the door, he ran into Moffitt and Tully returning from their watch.

"I say-" Moffitt took a quick step backwards as Troy burst through the double doors. "What is it, Troy?" he asked, assuming another complication had arisen.

"The Mueller kid." Troy hastily scanned their immediate surroundings, unable to detect which way Martin had run. "Did you see him?"

"I saw somebody running up that street," Tully drawled, pointing in the direction that lead to the town of Kaliningrad.

"Get in the car and go after him," Troy demanded. "Find him, Tully, and haul his ass back here."

The sergeant did not have to give the order twice. Tully was on his way before the front door of the sedan was closed.

Troy realized that Dietrich must have told the boy about his father; it was the only thing that could have caused such a hysterical response from Martin. When the captain still had not arrived on the scene, Troy gave Moffitt an even more serious edict. "C'mon," he motioned back to the inn, "we've got to find Dietrich."

His head bowed in concentration, Dietrich was sitting back on his knees, when Troy and Moffitt found him. Troy couldn't tell how seriously the captain was injured, but it was obvious the man was in distress.

Moffitt silently approached Dietrich. "Captain?"

A distinct wheeze was evident in the captain's rapid, shallow breaths, punctuated by a dry coughing. Pain was etched on the German's tightly drawn face.

"Can you get up?" the Englishman asked, as he braced the arm Dietrich had wrapped around his chest with his own.

Nodding his assurance, Hans had to bite his bottom lip to keep from crying out as Sergeant Moffitt helped him to his feet. His chest hurt from where Martin's shoulder had hit him, and the part of his back that had collided with the dresser ached as if on fire. Once on his feet, the captain immediately sank to the bed, where he sat trying to catch his breath. "Martin. . ." he managed between breaths, "have to . . . find him."

Troy placed a hand on Dietrich's shoulder and bent to make eye contact with the captain. "I sent Tully after him," he said, hoping the captain wouldn't notice the anger in his voice. This was the last thing they needed; Martin's escape had complicated further this mission already fraught with adversity.

Troy couldn't read the reaction in Dietrich's eyes, which were glazed over from fever and weakness. "He's going to pass out," the sergeant declared, looking anxiously at Moffitt.

Dietrich shook off Moffitt's hand at the back of his head. "No," he complained, blinking slowly in an attempt to diffuse the encroaching darkness, "I will be fine." _Breathe_, he reminded himself, _just breathe_.

Finally, the staggered breaths became deeper and more regular and the cough dissipated. Dietrich's head bobbed slightly when he looked up at Sergeant Troy. "I told him," he reported, trying to focus on the American.

"I figured."

"Perhaps you were right," Dietrich admitted, despondent. When he saw that Troy didn't understand, he continued, "Perhaps the truth doesn't matter right now."

"Any sign of Martin?" Moffitt asked pointedly as he stepped into Troy's room.

Troy watched as his counterpart drew up a chair to sit next to the bed. He could always tell when Moffitt was agitated - his movements became more exact and his soft accent more sharply clipped. Realizing the English sergeant had come to him for something more than a casual chat, Troy folded the documents spread out before him as a signal that Moffitt had his undivided attention. "No," he replied, shaking his head. "Tully took Hitch to go after the kid, but I haven't heard a word from either one of them."

Troy waited as Moffitt, staring at the floor, nodded his understanding. Sergeant Jack Moffitt only occasionally exhibited any sign of reserve, but when he did, it meant he was deeply troubled. And there was plenty to be troubled about.

"What is it, Jack?" Troy asked, hoping the informal use of Moffitt's given name would encourage him to relax and open up.

Stretching his long legs, Moffitt crossed his ankles and folded his arms across his chest. "This whole bloody mission," he answered. "Nothing is as it should be." Shaking his head, he seemed to be searching for the explanation within himself. "First it's the Mueller boy, then it's his father . . . the weather is just bloody awful, and now Dietrich-"

"Is he okay?" Troy asked anxiously.

"I don't know," Moffitt answered, feeling entirely inadequate to evaluate the captain's health. He rose from where he had been seated and, putting his hands in his pockets, nervously paced the small room.

"What do you mean, you 'don't know'?"

"I know as much as you do, Troy," Moffitt responded vehemently. "I can tell the cough has settled in his chest. He's still running a fever, and now he has a bad bruise on his back from where the boy shoved him into the dresser." He stopped and glared at Troy. "I don't know about you, but all of this tells me he's not in any shape to be trusted with the lives of 250 men, as well as our own. I think even he's beginning to have his doubts."

The American sergeant sighed and tiredly ran his hand over his face. Moffitt was probably right, but Troy had been too stubborn to admit it. He wanted to believe the captain, to accept his word that he could do the job. But as evidence to the contrary kept stacking up against them, Troy, too, was beginning to doubt the advisability of continuing the mission. Unwilling to abandon the project altogether, he fumbled for an alternative plan.

"What about if you go in?"

The look of surprise on Moffitt's face told Troy he would have to do some fast explaining.

"You speak German," he said encouragingly. "You could get the job done just as efficiently as the captain, liberate the camp and leave with us, just as planned."

"I speak German," Moffitt agreed, "but I am not a member of 'the master race,' Troy!" He realized Troy was grasping at straws, but he had serious doubts that he could convince 250 Wehrmacht soldiers to follow him. "They'll probably suspect it's some sort of Allied ploy to fabricate a reason to shoot them. I'll be shot as a spy, and then what will we have?" The Englishman waved both of his hands in front of him, indicating he wasn't interested in the proposition. "No. It has to be Dietrich or nothing."

_Damn_, Troy swore to himself, _we're too close_. Knowing it would take a small miracle to successfully complete their mission, he still refused to make the decision to turn back. "We wait until morning," he instructed tersely. "Dietrich gave me his word that he wouldn't attempt anything if he wasn't able."

"And you trust him?" Moffitt asked, skeptically.

Troy nodded his head. "Yeah, I do. . . . I have to."

Moffitt returned the chair to the corner of the room and stood in front of Troy. "You'd better start praying to whatever gods you believe in," he advised his friend. "We're going to need them."

"Yeah, I know," Troy replied, flatly. In a fit of frustration, he angrily flung the map case across the room as Moffitt closed the door behind him. "Let's just hope God is still listening," he said to the empty room.

Dietrich lay on his side, staring into the darkness. For the second time in his life he felt totally defeated. The first time had been the night before his surrender to the Allies; tonight was almost as painful. He wasn't afraid of failure - he had already experienced firsthand the bitter taste of defeat. A part of him knew he wasn't to blame for the calamity this assignment had become. In reality, most of the events of the past three days were entirely beyond his control. What he truly feared was surrender . . . giving up without a fight. Surrender implied submission; submission suggested weakness. And Hauptmann Hans Dietrich would never admit to being helpless.

The chills began anew as Dietrich drew the rough, woolen blanket around him for warmth that would not come. Concerned with the captain's comfort, Sergeant Moffitt had spent the better part of the last hour hovering over him to the point of annoyance. Finally, with as much gratefulness as he could muster, Hans was able to convince the sergeant that he only wanted to be left alone. He needed time to think, time to reflect on the reasons he had taken this assignment, and time to convince himself to carry on.

Dietrich had accepted his part in this rescue mission for many reasons, not the least of which was to ease his feelings of failure and defeat. However, the official tally of 250 soldiers took on a new meaning this morning when, for the first time, he was able to assign human lives to that number. And he knew he had taken part in this effort for more than purely selfish reasons.

While the Allies' duplicity in the enterprise had been disturbing, Dietrich had decided that one life compared with 250 wasn't worth the indignation. He was sorry Martin would be the one to suffer in light of his revelation. The boy had idolized his father as the model against which he would judge all others. By telling Martin what he knew, he had shattered that image and sent the young man hurtling down a treacherous path. Wherever Martin was now, Dietrich knew he had reached a crossroad with only his underdeveloped sense of honor as his guide.

In the end, Hans decided that the only people to whom he owed any allegiance were the men in the POW camp. He would find a way to deal with his physical problems, and he would allow Martin to find his own course. Dietrich's immediate priority would be the day before him - the future would take care of itself.

As the long hours of evening passed, the fever and chills faded along with the throbbing in his head. His self-assurance renewed, Hans drifted off to a deep, tranquil sleep.

Closing the drapes on the window next to Hans' desk, Ilsa rubbed her arms for warmth as a cold draft seeped through the thin panes of glass. Looking forlornly around the room, she thought how barren it felt without Hans. It had been three days since the Allies had returned her husband's car . . . three days since she had had any word of his whereabouts. It seemed as though she had spent most of her married life in anticipation of Hans returning home. From the moment she had accepted his proposal of marriage, she knew that perpetual waiting would be a defining factor in her life.

Eventually, she had come to accept the inevitable partings and separations. Every time he would leave, she would invent new ways to keep herself busy, to keep from dwelling on what could be, and to focus on what was. But this time it was different.

After lighting the wick, Ilsa carefully replaced the glass shade on the oil lamp and watched as the warm glow filled the room. Slipping Hans' sweater over her shoulders, she smiled. Steadily growing more comfortable surrounded by the things that reminded her of him, she seated herself in the chair at his desk and stared at the organized clutter.

Their most recent parting had been more personal, more painful, than the other times. Try as she might, Ilsa could not identify a precise reason for her apprehension. Hans had been called away suddenly on other occasions; why did this time fill her with worry?

This was not the first time he had risked his life in performance of his duty; why did this time feel so unjust?

Why did she feel so alone?

Even surrounded by Gretchen, Clara, and Rosa, she felt as if a part of her was missing. He had been home for only a short time, but she missed him more now than ever before.

Ilsa sighed wistfully and sank deeper into the chair. Perhaps the difference was the sense of foreboding she had felt the first time Sam Troy appeared on her doorstep. Perhaps it was because she suspected that the Allies were taking advantage of Hans' vulnerability. Perhaps it was because she knew her husband and her family were being used for someone else's hidden agenda.

Lightly passing her hand over the various stacks of paper, Ilsa eventually touched the box of Hans' personal possessions that remained unpacked. Sliding the chair closer to the desk, she drew the box to her. Summoning her courage, she gently folded back the flaps to investigate the contents.

Hans had replaced each item carefully after the incident with Martin. The Knight's Cross was in its case, securely placed in the corner of the small box, surrounded by other service awards. She considered them to be a hollow testimony to her husband's service and dedication; he deserved a better fate than this collection of memories. There were other official-looking documents, pictures of friends, another picture of Ilsa and Gretchen taken before Hans left for Africa.

Ilsa studied the photo of herself and the baby. Fear was evident in her eyes even as she smiled for the camera. Setting the photo aside, she found an envelope addressed to her, in Hans' handwriting. Tucked in the corner, flat against the side of the box, the envelope stuck a little as she pulled it away from the cardboard box. She was able to tell that the letter had never been opened and it had, apparently, never been posted.

Ilsa studied the faded envelope. Hans had included the letter in the box of personal items that he had sent to her before he had been taken prisoner. She had been afraid to open the package. Unwilling to be party to the premature end of her husband's career and terrified of the unknown, she had refused to break the seal. She had been convinced that as long as the box remained intact, her bond to her husband would never be broken. In retrospect, her fear seemed foolish, but at the time she felt as if she were holding her husband's life in her hands.

Ilsa flipped the envelope over and laid it flat on the desk. The aged glue, now brittle and dry, offered little resistance as she gently slid her finger under the flap, prying it loose. She tenderly unfolded the note tucked away in its wrapper. Her heart pounding, she began to read the letter written to her more than two years ago.

_Darling Ilsa,_

_It is early morning in the desert. The sun has not yet risen and already the sand and air are warm, anticipating yet another day under the scorching sun. Yet this day will be like no other. The orders for surrender finally have been given and now there is nothing left to do but wait._

_I do not mind defeat as much as I do the act of submission._

_ My men fought bravely and I cannot help but feel I have failed them in some way. But if the truth be told, we have all been forsaken by a higher power; by a force over which we have no control. It is almost a relief to know I shall not send any more young men to their deaths, that I do not have to ask these soldiers to fight for an ideal to which I have never personally subscribed. I have done my duty; the rest I leave in God's hands._

_I have learned many lessons during the time I have spent in Africa - the most important being that honor knows no rank, gender, or nationality. I only hope I can live that lesson today as I place my men and myself at the mercy of the enemy._

_Please do not fear for me, for I am never alone. I feel your touch in the warm embrace of the wind; I see your eyes in the stars lighting the cold night sky. I hear your laugh in the sound of _

_children playing in the streets; your smile is written in my memory. You are with me always. You are my heart._

_I pray that this ungodly war will end quickly and I will soon return to you and Gretchen. Until then, there is only today. Yesterday is gone and we cannot predict tomorrow. I can only guess at how difficult things have been for you at home. What began as a reclamation of German dignity has ended as a national tragedy._

_I hope this reaches you safely. Everything is in upheaval and there is no guarantee that the mail will be delivered. I do not know where we will be taken; but I am confident we will be treated well. Have patience, darling, for I could not survive without the knowledge that you are waiting for me._

_I will write again as soon I am able. I love you more than my own life._

_Hans_

Closing her eyes, Ilsa held the note to her heart. Finally, she understood why this parting had been especially painful. During the years of adversity, the love she and Hans shared had matured and grown stronger. Letting him go had taken every ounce of courage she could muster.

Determined not to cry, Ilsa slowly rose from the chair and walked to the window. As she pulled one curtain aside, she spread her hand flat on the window as if she could magically reach out and touch him. The icy glass combined with the cold draft and caused her to shiver. Giving into her sorrow, a single tear betrayed her resolve as she whispered, "You are my heart."

Dietrich rose early the next morning. Martin's bed had not been slept in and he assumed the boy was still missing. His first instinct was to confront Troy with his recommendations for finding Martin but, just as quickly, he changed his mind. He knew from firsthand experience just how resourceful the members of the Rat Patrol could be. If Martin could be found, he had no doubt Corporals Hitchcock and Pettigrew were capable of the job. Instead, he decided, his energies were best put to use preparing for his eventual imprisonment.

He was feeling better this morning. The fever had abated and, except for the occasional cough and the pain in his back, he had enjoyed a long, deep sleep. Dressed, and hungry for the first time in days, Dietrich found himself eagerly anticipating the task before him.

It was, apparently, too early in the morning to coerce the cook into preparing anything substantial, so Hans settled for a glass of hot tea and a few fresh rolls recently delivered from the bakery. Taking a seat against the wall, he stiffly leaned against the cold partition and crossed his legs. He briefly felt his shirt pockets, searching for a cigarette, then realized Troy must have removed them last night. A rattle in his chest caused another cough to surface, which he attempted to diffuse with the hot tea.

He liked being alone before beginning a new assignment. He used the time to review his strategy, to put his thoughts in order, and to reminisce. His thoughts strayed, as they always did these days, to his home and his wife and child. He did not, however, have long to become homesick. Cradling the tea glass in his left hand, Hans looked up in time to catch the look of astonishment crossing Sergeant Troy's face as he and his men approached the table.

When the display of amazement passed as quickly as it had come, Dietrich smiled in amusement; he liked catching the sergeant by surprise. "Good morning, gentlemen," he smoothly murmured in his rich baritone voice. Taking a sip of the tea, he watched the four men over the brim of the glass. They all seemed to be taken back by their impromptu meeting.

Setting the glass on the table, Hans calmly folded his hands in his lap, thoroughly enjoying this unexpected opportunity to put the Rat Patrol off their guard. He stared at the table for a moment, then lifted his head to address the other men. "It appears that I am going to live," he announced to the expectant faces surrounding him.

Troy took his place across the table from the captain, Moffitt to his left and Tully and Hitch occupying the two remaining places. Dietrich still looked deathly pale, but the dark circles beneath his eyes were gone, replaced by a spark of determination Troy had seen many times in the past.

"Martin is still missing," Troy reminded, testing the captain's newfound resolve.

Hans sighed heavily. "Yes," he nodded, "I know. Martin has made his decision, however ill-conceived," he explained, acknowledging Troy's concern that he might be distracted by the boy's disappearance, "but neither you or I can help him now."

"And you're not worried about him?" Troy asked.

"Of course I am," Dietrich snapped. Pausing to take another sip of tea, he replaced the glass on the table and continued more calmly. "But we have come here for a reason. I don't see how Martin's disappearance has changed our objective."

The captain's candid gaze told Troy all he needed to know. Hauptmann Dietrich was mentally ready; the physical part would take care of itself. The professional soldier, forced into acquiescence, had resurfaced. He wasn't sure what had catapulted this change in Dietrich's demeanor, but he was satisfied that the captain could be trusted. An exchange of looks with Moffitt assured Troy that his counterpart felt the same way.

The conversation came to an abrupt halt when the cook came to take their orders.

"Here we go again," Hitch muttered under his breath. Ordering anything at the inn was a challenge, and food was the most difficult of all. There was no menu - not that it mattered since there wasn't any variety in the day-to-day cuisine. Tea that was too sweet, coffee that was too strong and day-old bread seemed to be the fare for every breakfast; the fact that the staff spoke nothing but Russian only compounded the communication problem.

Dietrich watched while Troy struggled with his breakfast request. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Sam. . ." He could not help but smile. He and Troy had never addressed each other by their first names, but Dietrich thought it best to avoid using military titles in the presence of the Lithuanian civilian. "Allow me?" he asked in his most genteel manner. Then, addressing the cook, and without hesitation, Dietrich reeled off an order in flawless Russian, then turned toward Troy. "I ordered eggs, coffee, orange juice, and toast for everyone," he reported nonchalantly. "I doubt you'd want any of the meat. Is there anything else?" he asked smugly.

Troy eyed the captain suspiciously. "No," he conceded, "thank you, _Hans_." Since they were apparently on a first-name basis, Troy thought he would return the familiarity. He waited until Dietrich dismissed their waiter before expressing his consternation, but Pettigrew beat him to it.

"Well, ain't you just full of surprises," Tully observed from his seat at the end of the table.

Annoyed, Troy looked first at Tully then at Dietrich. "Just why the hell didn't you tell us you spoke Russian?" he demanded, wondering what else the captain had not revealed.

"You never asked," Dietrich replied flatly, refusing to be intimidated by Troy's bravado.

"Don't play coy with me, Captain. We don't-"

"I am not being 'coy,' Sergeant." Leaning across the table, Dietrich quietly interrupted Troy's tirade. "You told me to keep quiet. So I have," he answered, under his breath, then waved his hand dismissively. "Besides, if you didn't know I spoke Russian, then you have no one to blame but your army's 'intelligence.' I assumed that the fact was tucked away in my file at Allied HQ in Berlin."

Sam Troy sat back in his chair. Searching his memory, he could remember reading Dietrich's dossier, but could not recall any mention of the captain's proficiency in Russian.

"East Prussia," Moffitt spoke up suddenly, as he too recalled the information in Dietrich's file. "You did your officer's training in East Prussia."

Hans' casual glance in the sergeant's direction underscored his concern that everyone seemed to have access to his file. "That is correct."

"And that's where you picked up the Russian." Troy smiled as if he had just connected another piece of the enigma that was Hans Dietrich.

Dietrich's smile was almost benevolent. "Now that we have that little mystery solved, shall we discuss more important matters?"

Troy shook his head. "Not here," he cautioned the others. "It's 7:15. We'll meet in my room at eight o'clock sharp."

Dietrich nodded in compliance. "Then, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have already eaten." He smoothly rose from the table. "I'll be in my room." He was about to walk away when he remembered something else. He held out his hand as he towered over Troy. "I'd like my cigarettes, please."

Troy glanced up at the man disapprovingly, then fished in his shirt pocket for the cigarettes he stored there. "Here." He grudgingly handed the pack over. "Take mine." He looked at the captain and added a little more sincerely, "They're the best you'll get in the next few days."

Barely acknowledging Troy's observation, Hans tucked the pack of American cigarettes into his shirt pocket. "I'll see you in forty-five minutes," he said with little emotion. Now was not the time to worry about the consequences of imprisonment, but he couldn't help but feel the stranglehold the memories of captivity held over him. The two years he had spent in a British POW camp could not be measured against what these men in Lithuania had experienced, but the feeling of confinement was one he would not forget for quite some time. It was certainly not anything he had thought he would experience again.

The four members of the Rat Patrol gathered in Troy's room. This would be the final time the men would meet, the last chance to finalize plans before the execution of their assignment. This was the time for questions, answers, and clarifications. Their lives, as well as the lives of the POWs, depended on precision and teamwork. Mistakes could be deadly. Tension ran from man to man like a current of electricity inexplicably binding one to the other as they waited for Dietrich's arrival.

Four pairs of eyes converged on the captain as he entered Troy's room. The enormous gravity of the task at hand was evident on the faces of the four men; the room was charged with an overwhelming combination of anxiety, eagerness, solemnity, and fear. Dietrich hesitated, momentarily reluctant to expose himself to such an emotionally charged situation. He had to stay calm, stay focused. A great deal of his training and field experience had demanded just that - the ability to maintain control while chaos swirled around him. He drew strength from that experience . . . a dignified strength born of self-confidence and determination.

As he quietly entered the room, Hans raised his head a fraction. The movement came so naturally that he was only aware of it when the soldiers stiffened, then stopped themselves from coming to full attention. At any other time, Dietrich might have enjoyed the subconscious show of respect, but he knew when to put his ego aside. He had earned the respect of the Rat Patrol. Now he had to earn their trust.

"Gentlemen," he deferentially nodded to the group and closed the door behind him.

Taking his cue from the captain, Troy wasted no time outlining the strategy for the next three days. "Hitch found out that Rimkus loads his truck around ten in the morning." He looked at Dietrich. "We'll smuggle you on board; that will get you into the camp. What you do after that is entirely at your discretion."

Dietrich nodded his understanding. It appeared that he would have to borrow a page from the Rat Patrol's book of spontaneity, which left him feeling a little more than uncomfortable. "May I see the map of the camp again, Sergeant?"

If he could get a feel for the lay of the area, at least he wouldn't feel as if he were going blindly into the milieu. Bending over the bed, Dietrich anchored one side of the rolled map while Troy held the other. He studied the layout for a moment, then looked over his shoulder at Moffitt. "Sergeant," he summoned the man. "Can you tell me the route of the truck once it was inside the camp, exactly where he stopped to unload?"

Moffitt positioned himself between Troy and Dietrich. After studying the map for a moment, he reached out and pointed to a section of the camp near the west wall. "After passing the guard at the gate, he drove behind this building."

"Mess hall?" Troy guessed.

"Yes," Moffitt concurred. "I believe so. It was difficult to see from where we were positioned on the hill," he explained, then thoughtfully shook his head. "I don't think he was there long enough to do anything but make his deliveries."

Dietrich looked on attentively, then absently ran his hand through his hair. "Thank you, Sergeant," he murmured without looking away from the map.

"Something wrong, Captain?" Troy asked, deliberately. Dietrich seemed to be hesitating; with hesitation came doubt. There wasn't any time left for them to be second-guessing each other. "If you've got a problem, let's hear it."

Dietrich took a deep breath, resulting in another stifled cough. Shaking his head, he turned away from Moffitt and Troy as a racking cough shook his thin frame.

The two Allied sergeants exchanged a glance of concern. Even though the captain was more alert and attentive than he had been the past two days, the rattling cough reminded them he wasn't entirely healthy. But Troy and Moffitt couldn't afford to let their compassion overrule their reason. Time was growing short and there was no longer a question about whether or not they would attempt the liberation of the camp. As long as he was able to walk, the Rat Patrol would make certain Dietrich got into the compound. After that, he would be on his own.

Hans removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and held it over his mouth as he coughed again. Even though the attacks came less frequently now, the cough had become productive and Dietrich feared the infection had settled in his lungs. But determined not to show any sign of weakness, he carefully wiped his mouth and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket.

Straightening, he slowly turned to face Moffitt and Troy; it was apparent they shared his own suspicion that his illness was no longer a simple cold. He turned his attention back to the map, attempting to ignore the suspicion written on Troy's face. "I don't envision any problems, Sergeant," Dietrich replied after clearing his throat. "It's only that the mess hall is at the far end of the camp. It might be somewhat difficult to get to the prisoner barracks undetected."

"Unless you don't," Troy said thoughtfully. Dietrich shot him a quizzical look and he raised his hands as if to prevent the captain from arguing. "Hear me out. You'll get in there around ten. If the POWs do the cooking, you might be in exactly the right place at the right time."

Dietrich rubbed his chin as he considered Troy's hypothesis. "You may be right," he reluctantly agreed, troubled that he had not thought of it himself. He decided to chalk the incident up to another lesson in creative thinking he might learn from the sergeant. "The mess hall may be the best place to introduce myself."

"What time shall we rendezvous on Friday?" he asked. There was little need to discuss Dietrich's plan of action once he was inside the compound. A great deal would depend on his ability to organize the prisoners and get their cooperation - none of which could be predicted.

"The Allied boat is supposed to dock around fourteen-hundred," Troy said, checking his notes. "We'll see you shortly thereafter." He hoped he had conveyed his confidence in the captain as well as his belief that the rescue would be successful.

Attempting to ease his own tension, Dietrich inhaled deeply, which only served to provoke his lungs into another spasm. Catching his breath, he looked at Troy. "If that's all, Sergeant?"

"One more thing," Troy said, stopping the captain from leaving. Pulling his suitcase from underneath the bed, he produced a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. "You're going to need this." Recognizing the incomprehension in Dietrich's eyes, he tentatively explained, "It's a uniform. It's a little worn, but we thought it would be best for you to blend in with the rest of the soldiers."

Without a word, Dietrich took the package from Troy. The sergeant was right, of course. A German military uniform would allow him to remain inconspicuous, but dressing in the uniform he had long ago put away would only dredge up more undesirable memories. Nonetheless he stoically tucked the package under his arm and looked at his watch. "Shall we meet back in thirty minutes?" he asked. "I should be ready by then."

Troy hesitated a moment, then nodded. For the first time in their long association, the two men had dropped their defenses long enough to join together in a common goal. Their alliance felt both natural and alien at the same time. If nothing else, Troy had developed a deeper respect for Dietrich. With just a

little arm-twisting the captain had volunteered for this mission and relegated himself to a subservient role. He had fought a battle with the Mueller boy, and lost. And he seemed to be losing his fight against the infection that had invaded his body. Still, he persisted. Dietrich would complete this mission, or die trying, and Troy suddenly felt guilty about involving the man in this project. At that moment, he made a promise to himself that, against all odds, he would personally see to it that Captain Dietrich got home safely.

Tossing the package on his bed, Hans stared at it for a moment and sighed. He wanted to put off opening the bundle for as long as possible, but time was short and he didn't want to be responsible for any deviations in the schedule.

Sitting on the bed, Dietrich turned the parcel towards him and anxiously picked at the knot that secured the string around the brown paper. His hesitancy was rooted less in the uniform itself than in what it represented. He would look like a soldier again, with all the aesthetic markings of rank and status; he could act the part, for he had been born to command. But the commitment, the conviction that had been his guiding light had been snuffed out long ago.

107


	13. Chapter 13

_**Chapter 13**_

Hans studied his reflection in the mirror. The gray-green uniform was worn, but clean. The wool tunic and pants were probably a size too large, but the color matched his pallor and all in all, he looked the part of a prisoner of war. There were no rank insignias, no medals or decorations - nothing but an eagle embroidered over the right breast pocket carrying the symbol of the extinct Third Reich.

Dietrich adjusted the field cap on his head, then, on second thought, discarded it. From their reconnaissance yesterday, he didn't remember any of the prisoners wearing anything on their heads and felt certain the hat would only draw attention to him.

After placing his clothes in the suitcase under the bed, Hans slipped on his own boots, stood and looked around the room. There was nothing left that would indicate he had been there. His personal items were safely tucked away along with his clothes, and he had been careful not to carry anything that would identify him in the event he was found out.

With his hand on the doorknob, Dietrich opened the door ajar and took one more look at the empty room. It had been strangely quiet without Martin and he missed him much more than he wanted to admit. He hoped the Rat Patrol would eventually find Martin in the next few days. The young man was riding an emotional rollercoaster, acting out of naivete, rather than reason. Prone to mischief even in his more rational moments, he could only guess the trouble Martin would encounter in his agitated state of mind.

Still, he could not afford to dwell on the boy's circumstances. The next three days would demand his full attention. Timing, precision, and accuracy would influence every move he made, every thought. He had no time for troublesome distractions.

As he walked the short distance back to Troy's room, his thoughts inevitably strayed to Ilsa and Gretchen. As odd as it sounded, he did not claim to miss their company - it was something much more. The longing that gripped his heart was complicated by fear that he might not return home, and the resultant guilt that his family would have to go on without him. He had had to shut them out, to tuck them safely into a part of his mind that no one could reach. Only when his mission was accomplished could he afford the luxury of missing his loved ones.

Troy looked up as Dietrich entered the room. When their eyes met, the captain found his own turmoil reflected in the American's face. "It will do neither of us any good to speculate on the future," he quietly advised the sergeant.

"Or dwell on the past," Troy noted.

Even though the uniform was different from the faded khaki the captain had worn in the desert, Dietrich still cut an imposing figure in the infantry attire. After everything that had happened in the past week, it was easy to forget that Hans Dietrich had once been his sworn enemy. Seeing the man in a German uniform brought back all of the memories of their former association with unqualified force. Troy shook his head as if to dispel the recollections from his mind. Memories of the past only distorted the present, and they would all have to remain grounded in the here and now.

"Moffitt and Tully should be here soon," Troy said as he checked his watch, then watched in dismay as Dietrich tried to suppress another fit of coughing. He handed his handkerchief to the captain, as he searched the pockets of his new clothes.

Moffitt knocked lightly. Without waiting for an answer, he peered around the door; Hitch and Troy briefly glanced at him then to Dietrich, who stood with his back to them. Quickly assessing the problem, Moffitt stepped inside and waited with the others.

Following Moffitt, Tully inched his way inside the door, and soon discovered the object of everyone's attention. He didn't know exactly what was wrong with Dietrich, but he guessed it was worse than everyone was letting on. He also guessed that the captain wasn't thrilled with being the object of everyone's sympathy. As Dietrich drew a deep breath and turned to face the room full of men, Tully thought he'd defuse the potentially worrisome situation with a little humor. "Nice duds," he drawled.

Swallowing hard, Hans could not stop the smile that played on his lips. He had known Pettigrew to have a wry sense of humor, and he was never more grateful for it, than now.

"Would you like my tailor's name?" Dietrich replied in good humor.

Tully laughed under his breath, understanding the captain's reply as an expression of his appreciation. He winked a quick "you're welcome" that transcended all language and cultural differences.

The drive into the city of Kaliningrad was thankfully short and passed by without incident. The sky was clear, brilliant rays of light reflecting off of the white landscape and producing a glare that was more intense than that of the midday desert sun. Hans closed his eyes to everything: to the car seat in front of him, to Hitchcock and Troy, to the weather outside, to the people in the streets, and to the shops lining the main street of the city. He closed his eyes and listened. As the car crept through the narrow streets, the purring of the engine blended into the hum of activity outside his window until all that was left was a supernatural chorus of man and machine. Eventually, he became aware of his own heart beating. The beat pulsated in time with the wheels that turned beneath him. The cadence remained calm and even until the car slowed and his heart began to quicken. When he opened his eyes, they had arrived at their destination. Rimkus' shop was a simple store-front grocery. At any other time of year it might have been overflowing with fresh produce and other food staples, but with the onset of winter the store's inventory, as well as its clientele, dwindled as rapidly as the temperature.

Hitch circled the block, then decided to park in the alley where the delivery truck was being loaded with supplies. Discretely situated behind a couple of overflowing garbage bins, Troy was just able to maintain surveillance on the delivery truck through the front windshield. Focusing his binoculars, he watched as the man he supposed was Rimkus moved between the back of the store and the truck, loading loosely bound parcels as well as sacks of food onto the covered bed.

Inching forward on the seat, Dietrich attempted to gain a better view of the store and truck. Unable to see anything from a distance, he tapped Troy on the shoulder. "May I?" he asked, motioning for the binoculars.

Troy handed them to Dietrich without hesitation. The figure in the distance continued to load the parcels onto the truck. "I think that's Rimkus," the sergeant said, nodding in the direction of the store.

Dietrich adjusted the focus, while following the man with the field glasses. "Hmm," he said, voicing his agreement. After a few minutes of silence, he added, "It appears that he is working alone." He handed the glasses back to Troy. "The truck is nearly full," he observed gravely. "I'd say this is our best opportunity."

Troy nodded once. "Right." He glanced in Tully's direction as the corporal stood on the curbside at the opposite end of the alley, waiting for his cue. Moffitt had positioned himself across the street from Tully. Assuming a casual stance, he appeared to be nothing but an innocent bystander, while keeping watch to prevent any interference with their plan.

On Troy's command, Tully nonchalantly approached the back of the building, then disappeared inside the store. Satisfied that Tully would keep the storeowner occupied, Troy and Dietrich sprang into action.

Dietrich followed Troy's lead as they sprinted the length of the alley. As they drew close to the back of Rimkus' store, they slowed their pace, then flattened themselves against the side of the building.

Troy peeked around the corner into the store. Tully had engaged Rimkus in an animated discussion; from the histrionics, Troy guessed they'd be occupied for some time. He then glanced at Moffitt and received a simple nod indicating there was no reason to hesitate.

But Troy came to a full stop when he turned to Dietrich. Bent at the waist, his hands firmly grasping his knees, the captain was breathing hard, as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him. No matter how he tried to ignore the warning bells pealing in his head, Troy could not ignore the captain any longer. Something just short of panic set in when he grabbed Dietrich by the arms and forced him to look at him.

"This is the end of the line, Captain," Troy reminded Dietrich between clenched teeth. "It's now or never."

It was Dietrich's last opportunity to pull out, his last chance to quit before he'd be left on his own to complete the next step of the mission by himself.

With his eyes closed, Dietrich straightened, took a short, deep breath and nodded his head in understanding. He could appreciate Troy's reservations. He was sure he looked like a candidate for an iron lung, but he was equally sure that Troy had underestimated his commitment to seeing this through to the end.

"It's now, Sergeant," he replied, looking Troy squarely in the eye with the intensity of pure determination. He waited a moment for Troy to accept his decision.

When Troy finally understood the captain's conviction, he released the man's arms and allowed Dietrich to stand erect. Without further discussion, he peered back into the shop and then motioned for Dietrich to climb into the truck. Only when he was convinced that Tully and Rimkus were still engrossed in their conversation did he approach the truck.

"Good luck, captain," he said, taking the U.S. Army issue jacket Dietrich had shed.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Dietrich replied, his thanks just as sincere as Troy's good wishes.

Nodding once, Troy was about to jog back to the car when he heard a whispered "Sergeant" behind him. When he turned around, he saw Dietrich crouched on the end of the truck's bed. When he was sure it was safe, he returned to the truck. "What is it?" he asked hesitantly, fearful of any more complications.

Dietrich gave a single twist to the wedding band on his right hand, slid it off, and handed it to Troy. "Please," he said, his request almost a plea, "keep this for me."

Troy knew the captain had entrusted him with much more than a piece of jewelry. It was his last connection to his wife and family - to his life outside the POW camp. It was the one keepsake he wanted Ilsa to have if he did not survive this mission, the one remembrance of their love. No matter how this episode turned out, Troy had just been charged with a profound responsibility. But it was an obligation he accepted without hesitation.

The inside of the truck was colder than the weather outside, and Dietrich rubbed his arms, trying to stay warm. He cautiously weaved his way through the boxes that were haphazardly stacked along the sides of the canvas enclosure. Settling for an opening about halfway down the side of the truck, he was about to position himself behind the boxes when a hand reached from behind him, at once covering his mouth and dragging him backwards.

He fell on his back with a dull thud as his assailant pinned him to the floor of truck bed. When he opened his eyes, he was looking directly into the face of Martin Mueller. Stunned - both mentally and physically - Dietrich froze for a moment, then began to struggle against Martin's weight.

Martin, however, had the advantage of surprise, and continued to maintain his hold on the captain, who lay prone beneath him. All activity stopped when a shuffling noise emanated from the rear of the truck and Rimkus pushed another box into the truck. Apparently finished loading the food staples, he pulled the canvas covering securely, blotting out the only source of light.

Martin put his finger to his lips and waited in the dark silence. When he thought he had given the shop owner enough time to move away from the truck he lifted his hand from Dietrich's mouth.

"Are you completely insane?" the captain spat in an irritated whisper. "Do you realize-"

The remainder of the captain's vitriolic reproach was muffled by Martin's hand over his mouth. The teen raised a warning finger. "I will let you up if you swear to keep quiet."

The first order of business was to get Martin's hand off of his mouth, then he would worry about getting Martin off of him. When he nodded his head in compliance, Martin released him, then pulled his hand away from the captain's mouth.

Freed from Martin's hold, Dietrich immediately sat up and scrambled backwards, stopped only by a cluster of flour sacks piled at the side of the truck bed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded angrily.

"I'm going to free my father," Martin replied just as intensely, "and neither you nor your _friends_ are going to stop me."

"You're going to get yourself killed," Dietrich pointed out harshly. After re-evaluating their present situation, he added, "You're going to get _us_ killed."

"I can handle myself," Martin mumbled as if he weren't entirely convinced.

When Martin's head dropped a fraction of an inch, Dietrich took the opportunity to catch him while he was off his guard. Struggling to his feet, he grabbed the boy by his shirt, bringing him face-to-face and forcing him to pay attention. "This isn't some kind of game, boy. You're not playing hide-and-seek with the border guards this time. These are trained Russian soldiers - killers who don't ask questions before opening fire."

When Martin looked away, Dietrich drew him even closer. "And God help you if they capture you before they kill you."

"If they're so dangerous, what makes you think you'll be able to elude them?"

"Because I'm a trained soldier, too, and so help me, if you do anything to endanger my life, or the lives of those men, I'll kill you myself."

Something in Dietrich's hushed voice must have convinced Martin that the captain was deadly serious. When he was released, Martin took a precautionary step backward, but before he could respond the cab door closed and Rimkus started the engine.

Hans and Martin dropped to their knees, steadying themselves against the jarring force of the truck changing gears. "When we get into the camp, I will go my own way and you can go yours," Martin said a little louder, straining to be heard over the din of the engine.

"_If_ we get into the camp," Dietrich corrected Mueller, "you will not leave my side."

Martin fumed under the captain's angry glare, weighing his options. Even though he chafed at the idea of finding himself once again under the control of Herr Hauptmann, he decided it would be best to do as Dietrich instructed. After all, the captain was more familiar with the layout of the area, and Martin had no real plan for finding his father in the maze of buildings. Staying close to the captain might even have its advantages. With no other choice but to go blindly on his own, the teen reluctantly agreed to Dietrich's demand.

Sitting on the floor of the moving vehicle, the captain wearily leaned against the wooden slats that defined the sides of the truck bed. He wondered why he had not seen this coming. Martin wasn't stupid. If anything, he was one of the most determined, clever young men Dietrich had ever met. Through a combination of cunning design and pure chance Martin had landed in Lithuania, and was now a lorry bound for the prisoner of war camp where his father was being held.

Grudingly, Hans gave the boy points for ingenuity. He studied the arrogant, self-assured youth, and shook his head. He doubted the boy had given much thought to what he'd do once he was inside the camp. He knew Martin would only stay with him for as long as it took him to become accustomed to his environment. After that there would be no way to control him. All of which made Martin a liability Dietrich couldn't afford.

"Martin, you have to put aside your personal feelings for a little while," Dietrich tried reasoning with the boy. "You have to put the goals of the group ahead of your own agenda."

"I am not part of 'the group,'" Martin vehemently reminded Dietrich.

"But you were," Dietrich patiently debated the point.

"No," Martin disagreed. "And neither are you. We are Germans. We don't belong with them," he sputtered excitedly, pointing behind him to a non-existent Rat Patrol. "They don't care about us, or our country. This whole rescue is just another exercise in self-righteous benevolence."

"This whole rescue is about freeing 250 fellow Germans, no matter who takes the credit for it." Dietrich assumed a quietly self-confident demeanor and added resolutely, "and that is where we belong."

"But I am not a soldier." Dietrich's logic had struck at a long-hidden nerve and Martin began to retreat. Feeling captured, he anxiously looked around him for an avenue of escape. When he found none, he withdrew to the opposite side of the flat bed.

"We are all soldiers in one respect or another," Dietrich explained. "We have all fought our own battles . . . some on battlefields that are not of our own choosing." He paused long enough for Martin to digest his meaning. "We will all continue to fight until this war is no longer a demon with whom we must contend." Martin shifted uncomfortably and Dietrich knew he had hit his mark. "Perhaps it is unfair, but that is the reality of it."

"I just want to help my father-" His remaining words caught in Martin's throat.

For the first time since they had met, Dietrich thought Martin looked like the desperate, confused child that he was. "I understand, but the other men also need your help, Martin." He paused for a moment as he carefully chose his next words. "I need your help, because I can not fight both you and the Russians. If I do, we will all lose."

Martin stared at Dietrich from across the truck. He wanted to hate him, to unequivocally reject his argument as an exaggerated lie designed to make him yield to his authority. But the captain had never lied to him, even when he had not wanted to hear the truth. The disclosure about his father had been painful, but not because the implications clouded his father's reputation. Martin's turmoil stemmed from the fact that, even as he accused Dietrich of lying, a part of him knew the revelation was the truth.

Dietrich watched as Martin wrestled with himself, trying to come to a compromise between his heart and his mind while still salvaging his dignity. A sudden bump in the road reminded them both that time was growing short. Dietrich guessed that they would soon be at the camp. He needed an answer. "Will you help me?"

Martin returned Dietrich's gaze. Herr Hauptmann knew exactly how to play him. It had only taken an appeal to Martin's duty and pride to convince him to aid Dietrich in his task. But it was because the captain appealed to his honor that Martin would agree to help. No one had ever considered him to be capable of such noble notions - no one but Hans Dietrich. Without averting his eyes, Martin nodded and confidently answered, "Yes."

Receiving little more than a cursory glance from the guard, Rimkus drove the truck past the main gate and into the compound. Eager to complete this unscheduled delivery, he was going too fast as he rounded the rear of the mess hall, and had to jam on the brakes to prevent the lorry from careening into the ever-growing compost heap.

Dietrich and Martin held onto anything that appeared to be stationary as the truck came to a violent halt. Glancing at Martin, Dietrich motioned for the young man to join him.

Moving the canvas covering aside, Hans listened to the conversation between the grocer and a guard as Rimkus untied the back cover. "They're going for help to unload these things," Dietrich explained. "As soon as I'm sure they're gone, we get out of here, understand?"

He looked at Martin to be sure he understood, then slowly crawled the length of the bed to where the flap remained dropped, but untied. Dietrich pushed the tarp aside far enough to study his immediate surroundings. The truck was in back of the building used as a mess hall, the rear end facing the north wall of the camp. Two Russian soldiers were engaged in a conversation in front of the building that ran parallel with the wall, and a few prisoners, apparently on clean-up detail, were lethargically performing their chores across the yard from their captors.

Slowly and deliberately, Dietrich let the cover fall back into place. "There are soldiers to our immediate left," he instructed. "I'm going to go around to the other side of the truck. Follow me, and then we'll decide where to go from there." Martin nodded as he tapped the boy on the shoulder for good luck.

Hans jumped from the back of the truck, lightly landing on the muddy ground rutted with tire tracks. Taking a quick look around, he assumed he had gone unnoticed, then crept around the side of the truck to stand in front of the rear tire. Following the captain's lead, Martin appeared beside him in a matter of seconds. That end of the camp was completely deserted and Dietrich took the opportunity to get his bearings.

They were directly in back of the dining hall, between the building and the east fence. To their left, against the north fence was a utility building, as well as one, to their right, against the south wall. From his recollection of the schematic diagram of the camp, Dietrich remembered the prisoner barracks to be laid out in a half moon pattern around the administrative office. There were five prisoner units in all, each unit situated squarely between Russian troop barracks, on either end. The first POW unit sat directly in front of the mess hall, and that was where he intended to stop first.

Without a word, the captain jerked his head in the direction of the far end of the mess hall as a silent order for Martin to follow him. He peeked around the corner. More guards and prisoners went about their daily routines, oblivious to the two intruders. _The time has come to introduce ourselves_, Dietrich thought.

"Here." He reached down and handed a clump of wet dirt to Martin. The boy, obviously, had no idea what the handful of earth was for. "Rub it over your clothes," Dietrich explained, performing the task himself. He peeked around the corner again. "We're both too clean for this society." He rubbed his soiled hands on his pant legs, then looked approvingly at Martin. Pulling his collar up around his ears, he pronounced them ready for assimilation.

As they nonchalantly walked from the shadows of the mess hall into the sunlit courtyard, Martin and Hans caught the eye of one of the guards supervising the cleaning operation. Dietrich immediately turned his back to them, bent down and began inspecting the area for any bits of debris that could be considered litter. Martin wisely decided to follow the captain's example. Apparently satisfied that the two prisoners were gainfully occupied, the guard returned to his interrupted conversation.

Stopping every few feet to pick up debris, either imaginary or real, Dietrich slowly worked his way to the disposal site. The collected garbage burned in a steel drum. Orange flames licked at the sides of the can, momentarily flaring with each new contribution, then quickly subsiding. Many of the prisoners had migrated there, attempting to keep warm in the heat of the fire. They moved in and out of the ambulant crowd, lingering only long enough to feel the heat, then resuming their work.

Tossing one handful and then another of cigarette butts in the flames, Dietrich deliberately avoided eye contact with the rest of the prisoners. He was sure his unannounced presence would raise questions, and too much attention to himself and Martin would alert the guards. But before he could turn away from the fire, a strong hand grabbed his arm in a vise-like grip and sharply turned him around. Dietrich found himself inches away from the face of one of the guards.

"What are you doing here?" the guard asked in a strident form of broken German. He studied Dietrich's face as one would study a peculiar painting.

"I was helping," Hans sputtered innocently. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Martin moving toward him as if to intervene. Drawing the guard into an altercation was unwise in any situation; Dietrich did the only thing he could think of to distract the guard. He took a deep breath, meant to irritate his lungs, and began to cough violently. Bent in half, his arm still in the guard's grip and tilted at an extreme angle to his shoulder, the rest of his body shook with the hacking cough. It was only when mucous trickled from his open mouth, did the guard let him go.

Dietrich guessed the last thing the Russian wanted was to be exposed to potential disease and, as planned, he was immediately released. On his knees, in the cold, wet dirt, the captain wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and tried to catch his breath. When he looked up, the Russian was stalking away, muttering something in his native language.

A red, rough hand reached down to help Dietrich back to his feet. Standing up, he tottered for a moment while looking around for Martin.

"Are you all right?" The youthful voice belonged to the man with the reddened hands. Dietrich looked at him, then glanced uncertainly at the guard. "Don't worry," he laughed scornfully, "they don't pay much attention to us unless it's to steal cigarettes." He, too, studied Dietrich's unfamiliar face. "You are new?" It was a question laced with doubt. It had been some time since new prisoners had been delivered to the camp.

"You might say that," Dietrich answered obliquely. He looked around at the curious faces surrounding him. "Who is the senior officer here?"

"Who is asking?" Another prisoner stepped forward, obviously suspicious of the new inmate. He was older than the first and appeared to have been a prisoner longer than most.

Hans debated for a moment, then decided not to give his real name. Any one of these men could be a Soviet plant - a prisoner spying on his compatriots for whatever crumb of comfort the Russians might bestow on him. "Hans Bauer," he answered, not bothering to identify himself as an officer. The less these men knew about him the better off they were. "I've been in hospital." He coughed again for emphasis, then explained, "I had a couple of broken ribs. They just sent me here today."

"What about him?" The older man gestured towards Martin.

"Martin Hoechst. I was an orderly in the hospital," Martin said, deciding to give himself a new identity also. "They caught me selling drugs." He shrugged indifferently. "I guess they decided my talents would be put to better use here."

"Hmph," the older man replied, seemingly unimpressed with either new man. "Well, there's plenty of things to sell around here," he grunted sarcastically, waving his arms at the remainder of the camp. The rest of the prisoners followed his lead, laughing nervously at their pathetic reality. There was little else they could do.

"Sergeant Max Shrier." The burly man extended his hand in friendship. "This is Corporal Karl Schneider," he said, indicating the young man who had assisted Dietrich.

Schneider also extended his hand and smiled warmly. "Major Brückner is our C.O.," he offered. "You'll find him in that building." The corporal pointed towards the prisoner barrack closest to them. "You should report to him, I suppose."

Hans graciously returned Karl's smile. "Thank you, Corporal." Nodding his thanks to the rest and without waiting for Martin, Hans began to make his way to the barracks building. It was better if the two of them did not appear to be associates.

As he approached the building from the rear, Dietrich took note of the how the buildings were constructed, committing the details to memory. This particular building was laid out on a north/south orientation. There was one window at the end of the building, and Hans assumed there was another at the opposite end. The long side in the back was without any windows, and as he turned the corner, he found the entrance in the middle of the front facade. The habitats were constructed of unfinished wood and there was no evidence to suggest the buildings were insulated. A round, tin chimney at the far end of the building indicated there might be something that provided heat, but the lack of smoke indicated that heating fuel was scarce.

The guards' housing units were laid perpendicular to the prisoners', one unit at either end of the building. Even at rest, Hans thought, the POWs could not escape the watchful eye of their captors. The Russian dwellings were painted a light gray, were better ventilated and, judging from the smoke rising from the chimney, better heated.

In front of the prisoners' barracks, designated by the Cyrillic "L," Dietrich found the entranceway - one door in the middle of the west facade. He was about to enter the building but stopped to look for Martin, who soon appeared around the corner. Nodding once, he gave the door a slight shove and entered the dreary building.

A single light bulb hung suspended from a thin, fraying wire. The poor lighting made it difficult for Dietrich to see anything but the illuminated area directly in front of him. He was, however, able to make out a series of bunk beds - three high - lining the wall directly in front of him. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw that the bed units were arranged around the entire room, the head of the bed against the wall, the footboards forming a narrow hallway of about five feet in width. A wood burning stove occupied

one end of the building, and a solitary cot was stationed beneath the window at the other end. Although cramped, the barracks appeared to be meticulously ordered and as he stared into the dimness, Dietrich was able to detect a solitary figure seated on the edge of the single bed.

The prisoner looked up from the book he held close to his eyes, straining to read in the dark. "Who are you?" he asked, certain he had not seen these two men before.

Dietrich looked around the darkened interior of the barracks. They were alone, as far as he could tell, but he hesitated to reveal any details about himself or the escape plan.

"I have some information for you," Dietrich answered quietly, pointedly avoiding disclosing his identity.

"What sort of 'information?'" the major asked, suspiciously eyeing the two strangers before him. "What is going on here?"

"Please, sir," Hans pleaded quietly. He could do little else than hope his earnestness would be enough to convince Major Brückner to be discrete. "You have to trust me."

The look on Brückner's face suggested the major was at least curious, if not convinced of Dietrich's sincerity.

"Can we discuss this outside?" Hans asked.

Bruckner looked from Dietrich to Martin. If this were some sort of Russian trick, the major thought he should play along until he could discern their intention. The new prisoner's German was too good to be a Russian plant; if he and the boy were new prisoners, Brückner decided he should find out what sort of information was to be delivered.

"Very well," he decided at last. Laying the book aside, he stood and motioned for the pair to follow him to the door. "A nice walk around the camp might be in order."

In the telltale light of day, Dietrich took a moment to make his appraisal of Major Brückner. The major was a few inches shorter than Dietrich; gaunt and pale, with thinning blonde hair. His outward appearance made it difficult to estimate his age. However, it was Brückner's attitude and carriage that suggested he was many years Dietrich's senior. The major carried himself erect, even as his thin frame had difficulty supporting the worn uniform that, after years of imprisonment, was now two or three sizes too large. His blue eyes, now pink from straining to read in the dark, darted around the camp as they walked. He took in every detail, noted every activity and evaluated each situation that involved his men.

His obvious concern was acknowledged with either a salute or a subtle nod from the prisoners who happened to notice Brückner's presence. The respect between the soldiers and their C.O. was genuine, a unifying thread that connected the men to each other, and acted as a barrier to the Russians.

Dietrich almost envied the major's relationship with his men. During his incarceration as a POW, he and the men in his charge had bonded with each other, but it was a bond of friendship, not one of survival. These men, under Brückner's supervision, were unified by the human need to persevere; their strength was almost palpable.

"Shall we begin again?" the major asked as they casually made their way across the compound. "You still have not given me your names."

"My name is Hans," Dietrich explained, then motioned towards his companion. "This is Martin." Before Major Brückner could ask their last names, Dietrich continued, "it would be best for all concerned if you don't know our last names."

Brückner stopped and turned to face the captain. "What exactly is going on here?" he asked, his voice rising in exasperation.

Hans quickly looked around to be sure the guards had not heard them. He decided to start with the facts and proceed from there. "The war is over," he stated flatly.

"Wha-?" Brückner stared at Dietrich in disbelief.

Without hesitation, Hans continued, "It has been for almost seven months." The look on the major's face remained unchanged and Dietrich was not sure he comprehended what he was being told. "Hitler committed suicide and Admiral Döenitz surrendered to the Allies in May."

"This is impossible!" Brückner protested, confused by this unexpected pronouncement.

"Please, sir," Dietrich pleaded with the major to keep his voice down. "I know this must be a great shock to you, but believe me. It's all true."

"Then why are we still here?" the major angrily demanded.

Hans had to stop himself from responding in anger. As patiently as he could, he relayed what he knew about the Russian presence in Lithuania. After explaining how the Russians were storing the cargo unloaded from the ships, Dietrich finished by saying, "Instead of setting you free, they have kept you and your men as cheap labor."

"I must address this with the camp commandant," the major stammered as he turned away and started walking towards the commandant's quarters.

Dietrich and Martin fell in behind him. Doing their best not to call attention to themselves, they grabbed the major from behind, preventing him from going any further. "You can't do that, sir," Dietrich pointedly advised.

"Why not?"

"Because I've been sent here to liberate this camp, and no one but you and the POWs can know about it."

Major Brückner studied Dietrich's face. He could see that the man was completely serious, and he had no reason to doubt that Hans was telling the truth. "How do you propose to do this?" he asked skeptically. Except for the boy who had accompanied him, it did not appear that Hans had any accomplices.

After guiding the major to the relative privacy between barracks, Dietrich explained how, with the help of a team of Allied soldiers, the camp would be freed and the men put on a ship back to Germany. "The only thing we need to do," he finally said, "is spread the word to the others. That is where I will need your help."

"How do I know this is not some elaborate trick?" Brückner queried.

"You don't," Hans conceded, "all you have is my word." Dietrich paused, locking gazes with Brückner. "But I assure you, Major, if anything goes wrong, I will die fighting alongside of you."

Brückner hesitated. "You must give me time to think about this. There are almost 250 men here."

The major's loyalty to his men was admirable, but Dietrich could not allow him the luxury of deliberation. "No, sir," he stated resolutely, "there is no time for debate. The Allies will be outside that gate on Friday at fourteen-hundred hours. We have to be ready to move when they are."

Closing his eyes, the major paused to consider his options. _Of course, there are none_, he thought. He had to trust Hans and Martin if this rescue were to succeed. From what he had been told, this might be their only chance to secure their freedom. When he opened his eyes, they were filled with the same fierce determination as Hans'.

Nodding his head in agreement, he plainly stated, "I have a plan."


	14. Chapter 14

_**Chapter 14**_

As the three men continued their walk around the camp, Brückner noticed Hans and Martin nervously looking over their shoulders, keenly aware of the guards' presence. "You needn't worry about the guards," he advised. "They hold officers in awe," he explained, shrugging wearily. "I don't claim to understand why-"

"You are the ranking officer," Martin innocently chimed in. "You deserve their respect."

Major Brückner abruptly came to a halt. He looked quizzically at Martin, wondering if the boy actually believed what he said. Realizing the teen was serious, Brückner decided to correct the misconception.

"No one deserves respect," he said tersely, "respect is earned."

"But you are their superior," Martin argued.

The major suddenly became agitated by Martin's naïve insistence. "There are no 'superiors,' here," he spat angrily. "There is only 'them' and 'us'. . . and survival." Brückner glanced at Dietrich as if to question the advisability of associating with such a young man, then turned on his heels and began walking back towards his barracks.

The look of warning that Dietrich flashed Martin was enough to convince the young man not to argue his point. Hesitating long enough to take a quick look at the remainder of the camp, he hurried to catch up to the two officers as they entered the building where they had first met.

"As I was saying," Brückner said, attempting to make his point, "the Russians have a sort of reverence for officers, whether or not they are the enemy. Their respect for my title allows me some latitude in dealing with my men as well as the guards." Removing the dog-eared book from the bed, he waved it at Dietrich as evidence of his prestige, then gently deposited it beneath his mattress for safekeeping. "I am able to secure a few amenities for the men, from time to time."

"If the Russians hold officers in such esteem, why aren't they given their own quarters?" Martin asked curtly. He inspected the major's cot, situated underneath the window at one end of the barracks, wedged between two sets of bunk beds.

Annoyed by Martin's continued antagonism, Dietrich grabbed him with one hand and held him at arms' length. "We had an agreement," he vehemently reminded the boy. "Have you forgotten your pledge already?"

Major Brückner looked on the scene with interest. It was apparent that Martin was something of a discipline problem, and that Hans had come to the end of his patience with the boy. Why Hans had chosen his accomplice so poorly remained a mystery. Hans seemed like a capable fellow, but his qualifications to lead such a mission were not entirely clear either. Deciding there were too many questions that remained unanswered, and it was imperative to the rescue mission that he be told the truth, the major demanded an explanation.

"I think I've seen enough," Brückner admonished the two adversaries. He waited as Hans released Martin, but continued before either could offer an apology. "I have no idea why you've allowed this young man to accompany you, but it's obvious to me that he has no military experience, and you have doubts about his reliability." Brückner looked at Martin, his expression severe. "As do I."

"Sir, I can explain," Dietrich interjected.

"Good!" Looking again at Dietrich, the major raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Because I will not hand over my men to two unproven strangers, no matter if you plan to liberate this camp or not."

Brückner paused to watch Hans. The young man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels. The major thought he could hear a slight wheeze as Hans released his breath. "It's also apparent that you are not merely a concerned civilian who's decided to risk his life freeing his fellow countrymen," he continued more calmly. "I want to know who you are, and just why I should trust you with the lives of my men. And I want to know now."

Dietrich had hoped to avoid revealing his identity. If any of them were caught and their identities discovered, the political ramifications would be far-reaching. However, it was the personal repercussions that gave him reason to pause. The thought of inadvertently involving Ilsa in this drama was abhorrent. In the final analysis, though, he doubted Martin would be able to maintain any secrecy once he found his father, and it was unreasonable to expect Major Brückner to give up control to him based on his word alone. The time had come for the total truth, despite his misgivings.

"My name is Hauptmann Hans Dietrich," the captain began slowly. "Among other things, I was a Panzer commander for a few years in North Africa." The major seemed to accept of his explanation, and Dietrich decided not to elucidate on his career in the desert. "I was contacted by the Allies and asked to take part in the liberation of this camp," he continued, supposing that the same questions he had had initially were now going through the major's mind. "Apparently they thought it would be easier for a German officer to interact with the POWs," he concluded, simplifying the facts.

No matter what the Allies' reasons were for freeing these soldiers, there was no need to bring up the role Ernst Mueller played in all of this. He had no idea if the major was aware of Mueller's traitorous career and he did not wish to complicate matters with accusations that would cause dissension.

Major Brückner nodded knowingly as he sat on the edge of his cot. His suspicions about Hans were confirmed. There was something unmistakable about him that marked him as a soldier and an officer. Captain Dietrich quietly exuded a sense of service and reponsibility, an air of determination tempered with humility - attributes that were only learned in battle. The major had no doubt the Allies had picked the right man.

Still, the question of his companion remained puzzling. "Why bring the boy?"

Dietrich walked the few steps to the bunk beds and, grasping the wooden frame behind him, leaned against the footboard. "Martin is here only by a series of circumstances that no one could have foreseen," he began, barely masking his displeasure. Explaining Martin's presence, without giving away his familial connection was going to require some creativity. "Martin is on a quest of sorts. He was stopped at the German/Polish border and we happened to be passing by on our trip-"

"I am here to find my father," Martin interrupted, defying Dietrich's dictum. He wasn't ashamed of the truth, regardless of his father's guilt or innocence. Ignoring the flash of anger in Herr Hauptmann's eyes, Martin decided to explain his presence to Major Brückner.

"What is your name?" Brückner asked when Martin finished his story.

"Martin Mueller," the teen answered proudly.

Brückner immediately straightened, recognition distorting his facial features. His eyes scanned Martin briefly, quickly appraising the boy before him. "No doubt you are your father's son," he said simply and disdainfully. There was no question that the major knew of Ernst Mueller's reputation.

Dietrich was already in Martin's path as the boy angrily made an attempt to leave the barracks. "Where do you think you're going?" The captain's question wasn't at all rhetorical. Martin literally had no place to run to.

"You heard what he said!" Martin exclaimed, hurt and indignant.

Clutching Martin by his arms, Hans attempted to reason with him. "Yes, I did, but it's nothing you don't already know." When Martin tried to shake off Dietrich's grasp, his hold became tighter. "Think about it, Martin, and accept the truth for what it is." Hans gazed at Martin in complete sincerity. "You have come a long way to find your father and, against all odds, you've succeeded."

Martin stopped squirming.

"Don't allow your misplaced pride to ruin everything now. You will meet your father, I promise, Martin. But you have to have patience. You have to allow us to do what's necessary for the rest of these men."

Calmer now, Martin looked back over his shoulder at the major, who had risen from the cot. Perhaps he had deserved Brückner's contentious remark. His father was a traitor, a troublemaker. He knew it - no matter how much it hurt to acknowledge it. Perhaps he was more like his father than he dared to admit.

Swallowing his pride, Martin turned to apologize to the major. "I am sorry," he said, bravely admitting his fault.

Dietrich visibly relaxed as Major Brückner accepted Martin's apology. For the time being, at least, one more crisis had been averted. Martin's capitulation would make working with the major much easier, and Hans had to admit that, on some level, he was actually proud of the boy's repentance. Maybe there was yet some hope for him.

"I suppose I should just learn to keep quiet," Martin admitted despondently.

"No," Dietrich answered, managing a wan smile. The last thing his country needed was another generation of citizens who were afraid to speak their minds. "You just have to learn to pick your battles." When he could no longer hide his relief, Hans added a well-intentioned suggestion, "And never start a fight when you're already outnumbered."

When Major Brückner laughed, expressing his agreement, Dietrich assumed the volatile situation had been defused. He turned his attention back to the major. "You said you had a plan," he reminded, attempting to bring a little order to their conversation.

Brückner nodded and indicated that Hans and Martin should seat themselves on the beds across from his. He began to pace in a small circle in front of his bed, a learned maneuver developed after years of living in a confined space. "Since I am the commanding officer, I am allowed to meet with my subordinate officers once a week," he explained. "The meetings are basically to keep track of the men, their health and welfare, ecetera."

"That would be perfect!" Dietrich observed. "You can inform them of the rescue mission and-"

"The only problem is we have already met this week." Brückner stopped pacing to look at Dietrich. "It will be difficult to convince the commandant that we need to meet again. He's a suspicious bastard; there are always guards and an interpreter who report back to him."

"Can he be bribed?" Dietrich asked.

Brückner laughed under his breath. "Everyone around here can be bribed," he stated matter-of-factly. "The problem is, we have very little to bargain with."

"Wait!" Martin said excitedly, "I have something." Standing, he searched one trouser pocket, then the other. Finally, he triumphantly produced a pocket watch and handed it to Major Brückner. "My father gave it to me," he said, staring at the watch in the major's hand.

Dietrich could hear the emotion behind the young man's words. "Martin, don't give away something so special just because-"

"This has nothing to do with what my father is, or how I feel about him," Martin assured both the major and the captain. "He would want it to be put to good use, as I do." He sighed reflectively. "Besides, I want my father, not his watch."

Brückner glanced at the watch, then at Martin. "This," he said, indicating the watch, "just might be what we need."

Dietrich watched Martin. The conviction in his eyes a testimony to his commitment. "Thank you," he said, genuinely grateful. He hoped that this time Martin's commitment would last. Nodding his head in agreement, Dietrich asked, "What about the guards? Do they understand German?"

"No," the major replied. "Just a little English as far as I can tell."

"And the interpreter?"

Brückner sighed. "Jaroslaw Znosko, a rather miserable fellow. He's a displaced Pole who is rather fluent. He smokes too much and reeks of alcohol. He hates the Russians as much as he hates us, I think, but the money supports his filthy habits. He's even more amenable to a bribe than the C.O."

"Hmm. . ." Dietrich took a deep breath that was intended to clear his mind, but only made him wince at a dull ache in the left side of his back, just below his ribs. As the pain subsided, he looked up to see that the major, too, had noticed his reaction. Choosing not to comment on his state of health, he evaded the puzzled expression on Brückner's face by reaching into his tunic pocket for the cigarettes Troy had given him that morning. "It's doubtful we'd have anything he'd want, and he probably can't be trusted, anyway."

"How long will it take to explain the mission to your officers?" Martin asked thoughtfully as he watched the captain light the cigarette.

"Five or ten minutes," Brückner guessed. "Why?"

"Even you know I'm a troublemaker," Martin grinned smugly. "If the captain will allow me to borrow his cigarettes and lighter, I think I can keep the Pole distracted long enough for you to report to your men."

"You know, Martin," the major conceded, finally sitting on his bed. "I think I was wrong about you."

"No sir," the teen disagreed, a mischievous glint in his eye. "You were exactly right."

Their strategy was set. Major Brückner would arrange to meet with the camp commandant that evening and ask to schedule a meeting with the other German officers the next day. As soon as the meeting place and time was established, it would fall to Martin to distract the Polish interpreter long enough for Brückner and Dietrich to relate the escape plan. The whole scheme depended on the commandant's approval, and the major was certain the watch would guarantee his request. There was little else to do now, but wait.

Dietrich straightened from the hunched position he had assumed on the cot. There was little clearance between the beds, stacked three high, and his bent posture did not help his breathing. When he could no longer ignore the swelling spasm in his chest, he finally stood upright, giving into a fit of coughing.

Not entirely surprised by the captain's sudden seizure, Major Brückner looked on in apprehension and concern. He had suspected Dietrich's health was not what it should be, and this spell of coughing only proved him correct. But the major was more concerned about the welfare of his own men. He did not want to put their lives in the hands of a man incapable of leading the mission.

"You are ill," Brückner observed, somewhat accusatorily.

"I've had a touch of influenza," Hans replied, trying not to sound defensive at the same accusation he had heard from Sargeant Troy.

"And now it's settled in your lungs."

"Yes," Dietrich answered, breathing heavily. There was little sense in denying it. His thoughts were slowly clouding from the fever that had returned with a vengeance; the sweat beading on his upper lip was not from what little heat was given off from the coal stove on the other side of the building.

Brückner's misgivings had increased twofold. He preferred to think that the captain would not have attempted this mission if he thought he could not uphold his role in the rescue plan. But the major had witnessed stronger men who had failed simply because they refused to accept their limitations. He had to wonder if Deitrich was one of those men.

Hans understood the major's position. "I would not be here if I did not think I could finish my assignment," he assured Brückner, attempting to impart his self-confidence to the officer.

Martin watched as the major sat on his cot again. He stared at the floor, apparently pondering the advisability of putting so much trust in an ailing captain and his juvenile companion. Feeling as if he had to defend the captain's integrity, Martin decided to voice his own observation. "Hauptmann Dietrich is being honest, Major." He earnestly looked at Hans, knowing the impact his next words would have on the captain. "He has always been truthful with me."

Martin's candid disclosure was not so much a surprise as it was a revelation. It took a moment for Dietrich to consider the implications of the confession. The boy had finally forgiven Hans for telling the truth about his father, and had inadvertently admitted that the man he respected and admired was, indeed,

a traitor. It was a significant, if painful moment in Martin Mueller's life and Dietrich was honored that he had chosen this particular time to express his true feelings. It was probably the most courageous act the boy had ever performed, and Hans felt a sense of sadness that only he and Martin were privy to it.

The captain was a man of his word, Brückner was sure of that. But being true to one's character was difficult when the body could not comply with the mind. "I don't doubt that you are well-intentioned," he announced at last. "In light of everything you have told me, I have little choice but to trust you." Rising from the cot, he solemnly promised, "My officers and I will do everything we can to help." Looking first at Martin and then at Dietrich, he added gravely, "Please don't give me reason to regret it."

The sound of a creaking door shifted everyone's attention to an unexpected intruder. In the dim lighting, he appeared to be a young man, probably not much older than Martin. Tall, but slight of build, Dietrich thought he should've been dancing in a smoky Hamburg nightclub, not stuck in a prisoner of war camp in the middle of a barren seaport.

"Come in, Private," Brückner invited the young man inside.

Dietrich noticed the young man barely cleared the doorway, as he awkwardly stepped inside and saluted. "Lunch, sir," he announced the mid-day meal while studying the two men with Major Brückner. They were new, he was sure of that, and from the grim look on the major's face he guessed they were trouble.

"Thank you, Private," the major said, dismissing the young soldier, "I'll be along shortly."

Snapping another salute, the young man glanced again at Martin and Hans, then disappeared into the noonday outside the barracks.

"It appears that you two will be the main topic of conversation in the barracks tonight," the major said, commenting on the inspection Hans and Martin had just received. He noted the worry that creased Dietrich's brow. "Don't worry, Captain. The new of your arrival won't go any further than the men. No matter how curious they are about you, they won't betray you."

Dietrich glanced dubiously at the major. "I too was a prisoner of war, Major," he explained. "I know how news spreads among the men, and I know what happens when it reaches the wrong ears."

Major Brückner suddenly became defensive. "Are you saying that my men can't be trusted?"

"No, sir," Dietrich answered decisively. "I'm saying your men are in a desperate situation, and desperation distorts judgement."

"The guards don't allow us to talk to each other during meals," Brückner advised Hans and Martin, as they followed the major to the prisoners' mess hall. "I suppose they are afraid that we will conjure up some sort of magical escape plan while we're all together in one place." The major laughed sadly at the Russians' irrational fears.

Unarmed, with half of the men undernourished and ill, Major Brückner's troops certainly didn't present any threat to their captors. He only hoped they still had enough fight left to take advantage of the escape when the time came.

Dietrich acknowledged the major's advice with a simple nod. He didn't particularly care that he would be unable to talk with anyone. The less the men knew about him and Martin, the better off they would be. He was, in fact, quite happy not to face the inevitable questions. He needed this time to think, to quietly examine the faces of those whose lives were in his hands.

The idea occurred to Dietrich that Martin might be interested in one face in particular. As they approached the building where the meals were served, Hans abruptly pulled Martin aside. "Your father is probably inside," he calmly warned the young man. "Martin, I don't have to remind you how important it is that you do not cause a scene. Especially not in front of the guards."

Retaining his composure, Martin didn't try to break free from Dietrich's grasp. It was only natural that the captain would be concerned about his reaction to finally being with his father. "You don't need to worry," he stated confidently. "I swear I will not do anything to compromise our mission, or ourselves."

Hans was, once again, taken back by Martin's new deportment. It was the first time he had ever heard him speak in terms of the collective effort instead of his own agenda. It was also the first time Hans

felt he could believe what the boy said was true. He studied Martin's face for a moment. When he was sure that he was sincere, Dietrich allowed himself a slight smile.

"Good," he said, finally. Hans let go of Martin's arm, then followed the young man and Major Brückner inside the long building.

The heavy odor of fish assaulted their senses when the three men stepped inside. Whatever their noonday meal consisted of, it was obviously of the seafood variety. The mess hall was only minimally brighter inside than the barracks, and Dietrich was able to discern the established mealtime routine. Two long tables were set against the short, northern wall of the building. Whatever was being served was being dished out of huge pots on the tables. A line wove around the long wall of the building as the men queued-up to receive their portion. Except for the occasional clatter of metal plates and utentsils, the building was absolutely quiet.

It wasn't as if they needed to communicate verbally. The men who didn't observe the arrival of two newcomers were silently informed by those who did. Through a series of nudging elbows and nodding heads, Hans and Martin became the focal point of the assembled prisoners. Distracted by the hope of catching a glimpse of his father, Martin remained oblivious to the attention he was receiving. Studying each man in line, Martin tried to be methodical in his approach to finding his father. In his eagerness, he eventually lost track of the countless faces, and resorted, instead, to scanning the sea of men seated at the tables in front of him.

As the line inched slowly forward, Dietrich deliberately returned the inquiring stares of those with whom he made eye contact. He had hoped to maintain a low-profile, but it was obvious that news of their arrival would was no longer a secret. No matter what Major Brückner believed, his men were no different from other POWs whose world had been reduced to a microcosm within the barbed wire fence that held them.

Most of the men stared at the strangers for only a moment, then went about their mealtime routine. Standing on the opposite side of the hall, apparently waiting for a vacancy, one man in particular seemed more concerned with the new arrivals than the rest. As Dietrich's eyes adjusted to the reduced lighting, the soldier's features came into better focus and he immediately knew why the man seemed more interested than the others. Of average build and height, blonde hair and sharp blue eyes, he was almost the mirror image of Martin Mueller.

Ernst Mueller froze when he locked gazes with Dietrich and he thought his heart stopped when he finally saw his son standing in front of the new prisoner. The tray in his hands fell to the floor with a loud clatter, momentarily capturing the attention of those around him. In a panic, Mueller left the fallen tray behind and swiftly moved through the building, towards the only door to the outside.

Dietrich hesitated only a moment before deciding to go after the man. Staring off in the other direction, Martin had not witnessed what had passed between the captain and his father, and Hans quickly decided his ignorance in the matter was better left undisturbed. Surely Mueller had identified his own son. And since he had chosen to abruptly leave without even a gesture of recognition suggested that there was more to this father/son relationship than Dietrich understood.

Suspecting he would be followed, Ernst Mueller took one look back before pushing his way through the crowd at the door. Finally outside, he began to run.

As Martin looked on in wonder, Dietrich offered a hasty apology to Major Brückner, stepped out of line, and hurriedly followed the elder Mueller. Martin's father was already halfway across the compound when Hans was at last able to reach the outside. Racing to catch up with him, Dietrich caught a glimpse of Mueller ducking around the corner of one of the guards' barracks, then lost sight of him altogether.

Mueller had not gone far though, for as Dietrich caught up with him, they were both immediately grabbed by two guards who had approached them from the opposite direction.

The two Russians weren't particularly interested in why the Germans were chasing each other - they only knew that they were impeding their own progress. As they shoved Dietrich and Mueller against the side of the building, the guard holding Mueller recognized Dietrich from their encounter earlier that morning. When he muttered something about "that one" being contagious, his partner quickly released the captain, and both took a cautious step backwards. After admonishing the two prisoners in a rough concoction of Russian and English, they hastily left to continue their rounds.

As he rested against the side of the barracks, Dietrich's breathing undulated somewhere between a shallow gasp for air and a ragged cough. When the guards had moved far enough out of sight, Mueller took the opportunity to catch his pursuer by the lapels of his tunic and hold him against the wall.

"Who are you?" he demanded, pinning the captain against the building.

Dietrich's head snapped back from the force of Mueller's effort. He closed his eyes against the warmth of the man's breath in his face. When he finally regained his breath, he purposefully grabbed Mueller's wrists to wrest his hands from his collar.

"I don't owe you any explanations," Dietrich growled, straightening his jacket.

"Then why are you following me?" Mueller demanded.

"Because I know who you are," Dietrich unhesitatingly answered.

Mueller hesitated. If this stranger knew his identity, then he also knew he was Martin's father. "Why is my son here?" he asked, not bothering to continue the charade.

"Why didn't you ask him?" Dietrich jerked his head back towards the mess hall. "He's come a long way to find you."

Ernst Mueller took a moment to consider the implications of the newcomer's allegation. His "death" had been arranged. The Allies had seen to it that all the proper notifications were made. The Werhmarcht would have notified his family. He couldn't begin to fathom why Martin could not accept the prevarication, nor how his son had come to be in a POW camp in Lithuania. And at this moment, little of that mattered.

"I don't owe you any explanations, either," Ernst hissed as he turned to walk away.

Dietrich reached out in time to grab Mueller's arm and turn him around. "No," he agreed angrily, "you don't owe me anything. But you owe that boy something."

"You say you know who I am," Mueller sneered. "Then you should also know that I am not a popular man around here. It's better that he not associate with me."

Dietrich stared at Mueller in disbelief, wondering how the man could dismiss his son so lightly. "Martin doesn't care what you are, he only cares who you are."

"He wouldn't like me either way."

Dietrich thought he caught a glimpse of remorse in the elder man's eye. "Let him be the judge of that," he suggested kindly.

A clamor arose behind him and Dietrich turned to find Martin jogging toward him with Major Brückner following closely behind. When Martin suddenly stopped, Hans knew the boy recognized his father. Dietrich turned to find Ernst Mueller fleeing through the maze of buildings; he made no attempt to stop him. Instead, he stepped into Martin's path in order to prevent the boy from running after his father.

"What are you doing?" Martin screamed when Dietrich caught him by both arms and stopped him in his pursuit. "That was my father!"

"I know," Dietrich replied as calmly as the situation allowed.

Martin continued to struggle against Dietrich's hold. "Then let me go!" he pleaded.

"Martin-" How did one tell a child that his parent did not want to see him, Dietrich wondered. "Martin, please-"

"What?" the boy demanded. Beginning to suspect the truth, his lower lip trembled and tears began to well in his eyes.

"Let him go," Dietrich advised the distraught young man.

Tears streamed down his face as he stared at the captain. "Why?" he asked, bewildered by the assault of emotions. After a moment he voiced the words Hans was not able to speak in a plaintive whisper. "He doesn't want to see me."

Hans bowed his head. He had no words to comfort his friend. Martin offered little resistance as he gently wrapped his arms around him, holding the boy as his body shook with cries of confusion and sorrow.

Denial played havoc with his emotions even as the cruel realization gripped Martin's heart like a vice. This was impossible, he argued with himself. He had been right. His father was alive. He had come all this way, had risked his life and freedom to prove his point and to bring his father home. This

was not how it was supposed to end. The pain of rejection numbed his heart and mind, his world

crumbling before him. Even his ever-active imagination could not explain his father's indifference.

For the first time since he had received the news of his father's fabricated death, Martin felt the emptiness of abandonment. As Herr Dietrich's arms enfolded him, he desperately grasped for what comfort he could find from the only adult he still felt he could trust.

At Brückner's suggestion, Dietrich was finally able to persuade Martin to return with him to the major's barracks. The throng of curious onlookers was quickly dispersed by the guards, and on the major's authority, Dietrich and Martin were allowed to pass without interference.

Seated on a vacant bed, his hands clasped in front of him, Martin blindly stared at the floor, seemingly oblivious to Hans seated next to him. Dietrich had had a great deal of experience counseling young men in his command. From the loss of family to the unfaithfulness of girlfriends left behind, he thought he had dealt with every conceivable scenario - until now.

Ernst Mueller's behavior was beyond his understanding. Even if the man was ashamed of his past, even if his present situation was precarious, he did, at least, owe Martin some semblance of recognition - some gratitude for his efforts to rescue him. Mueller's reaction to the arrival of his son had been unexpected as well as unwelcome, throwing Martin into despair, and their mission into jeopardy. While Hans sympathized with the young man's turmoil, the liberation of the camp had to be his priority. Without Martin's help, the odds of a successful rescue were growing increasingly smaller.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a tin cup full of hot soup suddenly appeared in front of Dietrich. "I thought he could use something hot." A young man, several years older than Martin, held out the proffered cup.

Gratefully accepting the soup, Hans asked, "How-?"

The young man casually shrugged. "I smuggled it out of the mess hall. It's not difficult," he explained, opening his jacket to reveal his hiding place. Casting a concerned glance at Martin, he added, "I wish it could be more."

Dietrich passed the cup to Martin who dispassionately gazed at the liquid as it sloshed from side-to-side in the mug. Rising from the bed, the captain held out his hand in order to thank the soldier, as well as to make the necessary introductions. "Thank you, uh. . ." Dietrich searched for some sort of identification, but found none.

"Rundstedt," he replied. "Obergefreiter Wilhem Rundstedt," he grinned as they shook hands, "but my friends call me Willie."

"Thank you, Willie," Dietrich graciously smiled in return. Willie was of average build and height, but he had a kind, gentle face set off by eyes that radiated an innate intelligence. "My name is Hans." Then, indicating the teen, he added "This is Martin."

Willie expertly appraised the two strangers. "No last names, then?" he asked. When he didn't receive an answer, he shook his head knowingly. "That's fine. I don't have a good memory for names." Turning to walk away, Willie took a few steps then turned back to face the captain. "I'm sure you're here for a reason," he added as an afterthought. "I want you to know that I'm here to help."

As Willie went back to his work detail, Dietrich sat again on the cot next to Martin. He was assured of at least one collaborator, he thought contentedly. Willie's pledge of support slightly eased Dietrich's fears - if the young corporal's insight was any indication of the remaining men, gaining everyone's trust might not be as difficult as he had imagined.

Obtaining the cooperation of the prisoners was only half of the battle, though. The other half was to get the word out without alerting their Russian captors. Major Brückner was already meeting with the camp commander to arrange a conference with his officers. The only questionable player was Martin. Dietrich watched as the despondent young man sipped at the contents of the tin mug. "I'm glad to see you're eating." But his support seemed to fall on deaf ears. Martin's non-response emphasized the air of uneasiness circulating between the two of them. Hans knew what Martin wanted to hear: That his father's

conduct had been some sort of well-rehearsed farce designed to divert suspicion away from his son; that he would arrive at any minute and explain his behavior; that he would embrace Martin as his son, as any proud father would.

But Dietrich wasn't sure any of Martin's expectations would be met, and he refused to offer the boy any false hopes.

"He won't come, will he?" Martin's voice broke as he finally spoke his fear.

"No," Dietrich answered quietly, "he won't." He had little choice but to be honest with the boy.

"He doesn't want me here." Martin's voice was haunted, forlorn. "He doesn't love me," he observed in a barely audible whimper.

Martin's anguish was almost palpable, and Dietrich's only recourse was to draw on his limited experience as a father. "Don't judge him too harshly," he suggested, even though he too doubted the elder Mueller's motives. "Perhaps he's ashamed of what he is. Perhaps he's afraid you won't love him."

A tear traced a path down Martin's cheek as he finally turned to look at Dietrich. "He's my father," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, "doesn't he know-?" Martin shook his head in confusion. How could his father not understand that the past was gone, that Hauptmann Dietrich was right, it was time for everyone to move forward?

Placing his arm around Martin's shoulder, Hans could only offer his reassurance. "You're a strong, brave young man," he candidly replied. "How could your father not love you? Give him time, Martin. He will eventually realize it."

Somewhat placated, Martin laughed a little as he drained the last of the soup. "It must've been quite a shock for him - to see me here." Satisfied that time was, indeed, what his father required, he allowed himself a faint smile. "I'm not ready to give up quite yet," he announced, desperately holding to the last shred of hope.

Dietrich also could not keep from smiling. The boy had an indomitable spirit. "I didn't think you would," he answered, shaking his head in wonder.

Having convinced Martin to lie down and rest, Hans covered him as he slept. The ragged wool blanket wouldn't offer much warmth, and the straw mattress missed fitting on the bed by about three inches all around. Still, it was better than nothing and Dietrich guessed it was a vast improvement on what Martin had slept in the night before.

Hans picked up the empty tin mug from the floor. As he straightened his back, he felt a distinctive snap in his spine, and every muscle protested the strain of the day. He was already exhausted and the day was only a little more than half-gone. Absently wiping his forehead with his hand, he found he was sweating again. His dry mouth and roiling stomach were nagging reminders that he had gone without food and water for too long.

The sound of the door creaking open abruptly caught him off guard. Not wishing to risk an encounter with any of the guards, Dietrich quickly dove under the bed where Martin was sleeping. His heart beat rapidly, increasing his respiration rate, which induced another fit of coughing. His whole body convulsed as laid on the cold concrete floor and fought to remain silent.

Dietrich was able to detect a pair of feet as they moved easily around the barracks. It appeared that there was only one man and from the obvious disrepair of the intruder's boots, he guessed him to be a fellow POW.

"Hauptmann Dietrich?" Major Brückner called out quietly, trying not to disturb Martin.

Relieved to hear the major's familiar voice, Dietrich momentarily rested his head on his arms, then slid out from under the bed. Sitting on the floor, he wearily leaned against the wooden wall for support and uneasily waited while the latest episode of coughing passed.

Setting the tray he carried on the bed, Major Brückner perched on the edge of his cot, unable to aid the captain. When the coughing had abated, he indicated the covered tray and anxiously asked if Dietrich was able to eat.

Breathing heavily, Hans raised his head, closed his eyes and nodded. The idea of eating wasn't particularly attractive at the moment, but neither was the thought of dehydration and starvation. As the major handed him a cup of hot tea, Hans hesitantly examined the white ceramic mug as if it were an apparition.

"Well, it's not Dresden," Brückner observed good-naturedly, "but it does keep the tea warm."

Dietrich took a cautious sip, testing the temperature of the tea, then, in a hoarse whisper wondered, "How-?"

"The commandant's cook is a local townswoman of German heritage," he explained, removing the towel covering a freshly prepared plate of food. "She has been very kind to me in the past." Brückner handed the plate to Hans. "I asked her for a little something before I met with the commandant-"

"What did he say?" Dietrich asked, setting the cup aside as he accepted the plate. Even in the dimly lit barracks he could see the glint of satisfaction that played in the major's eyes. "You did it, didn't you?" he asked, eager for affirmation of his supposition.

A conspiratorial smile tugged at the corners of the major's mouth. "It's all set for ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

As he allowed his head to fall back against the wall, Hans released a sigh of relief. The watch had, apparently, done the trick. All that was left was to convince the junior officers of his integrity . . . as long as Martin could distract the interpreter.

From his position on the floor, Dietrich looked up to watch the young man as he slept. Martin was smart, tough and resourceful, but he was also young, unrealistic and easily wounded. He had come a long way and had, essentially, completed his intended objective. But his dedication to his own agenda had sprung from his ability to remain focused. Now, distressed by the afternoon's events, Dietrich wondered if Martin had the mental toughness required to stay focused; to remain committed. He had sworn a vow of loyalty, but that was before his dream of reconciliation with his father never materialized. Now, he had to stay focused on a new goal, and it was Dietrich's responsibility to be sure that he did.

127


	15. Chapter 15

_**Chapter 15**_

Using the last morsel of freshly baked bread, Dietrich dabbed at the remaining drops of butter that remained on his plate. The main entrée had been yet another creative treatment of some unidentified fish, but it was the best meal he had had in days and he could think of no reason why he shouldn't enjoy it.

He briefly thought he should have shared the food with Martin, but reconsidered disturbing the boy's slumber. Convincing himself that Martin was industrious enough to obtain his own sustenance, Dietrich swallowed the last bit of tea, neatly folded the cover, and handed the tray back to the major.

"Feeling better?" Brückner asked, examining the empty plate.

"Yes, thank you," Dietrich answered. "It's been quite some time."

The major smiled knowingly. "I thought so."

"It was that obvious?"

Nodding, Brückner extended his hand to the captain. "I think you should get off that cold floor, too."

Stiff from sitting in a cramped position for too long, Hans grimaced as the major helped him up. In particular, one area on his back reminded him of the previous night's altercation. "It's been a difficult journey," he offered before the major could voice his concern.

"I understand," Brückner replied. "These are difficult times - for all of us, I suspect." For a moment, it seemed as if the major mentally transported himself to a different time and place, wrapping himself in a long-hidden memory, a remembrance that had offered him comfort when nothing else could. Then, timidly looking at Hans, unsure he wanted to hear the answer, he asked, "How are things at home?"

The last thing Dietrich wanted was to destroy this man's cherished image of the past. The reality, of course, was that the major's memory was just that - a memory. The Germany he had left behind no longer existed. In its place stood a ravaged shell of a country, externally torn apart by the conquering victors, internally torn apart by the defeated survivors. As he studied the major's expectant face, Hans searched for the right words to convey the fate of their homeland.

"Nothing is how you remember it," he said.

Dietrich could still remember the horror he had faced when he arrived in Berlin after being release from a British POW camp. He could still smell the odor of the putrid flesh of animals and humans alike; he could still recall the vacant look on the faces of the survivors as they wandered aimlessly in the streets, scavenging for food, clothing, and any trace of their lives before the bombings. The desperate wailing of children too young to understand coupled with the cries of the elderly who did, still echoed in his memory. At the time he had wondered how the Brandenburg Gate had survived as the only landmark he recognized in a once proud city now burned out and reduced to rubble.

Yet, in spite of the corruption and devastation, the broken land had begun to heal; the stunned populace drawing strength from adversity. Through a unified effort, Germany would renew itself. By emphasizing the new role men like Brückner would be expected to play, Dietrich was able to describe the present situation at home, as well as Germany's expectations for the future. The trick was not to discourage the major before he was able to participate in the rebirth.

Hours passed as the two men discussed history, politics, and the present and the future. Before long the prisoners began filtering in as they completed their daily tasks or could not work any longer because of the lack of daylight. Some sauntered over to introduce themselves, some merely retired to the

relative privacy of their own beds. While Martin and Dietrich remained the object of everyone's curiosity, it was mutually agreed that the two should conceal their true identities for as long as possible.

The building grew warmer as the number of men increased and even after removing the uniform tunic, Dietrich was still sweating. With Martin involved in a card game with a few unsuspecting soldiers, Hans decided to step outside to get some fresh air.

"Curfew is in about ten minutes," Brückner advised Dietrich as he made his way to the door. "After that, no prisoners are allowed outside the barracks."

Slipping on the jacket, Dietrich nodded his acknowledgement of the major's warning. He only needed some fresh air, and ten minutes was just long enough to smoke a cigarette. The air outside was much colder than he expected, the wind blowing in from the sea making it frigid.

The night air brushed against the perspiration forming on his forehead, cooling his body temperature as he searched his pockets for the cigarettes. He began to shiver. Cursing under his breath, he remembered giving the pack and his lighter to Martin. With nothing left to do except admire the nighttime sky, Dietrich shoved his hands into his pockets and gazed heavenward. The few stars that were visible seemed especially bright tonight, their intense light enhanced by the effects of the wintry atmosphere.

As he counted the twinkling objects, Dietrich's mind drifted back to the nights in the desert. The temperature fell quickly with the setting of the sun, marking the drastic difference between day and night. The greatest difference, however, was the sky in the Southern Hemisphere. Clear and cold, the heavens would be virtually encrusted with shimmering points of light that seemed to stretch out into infinity. He had spent many nights simply admiring God's handiwork.

However, tonight's display of celestial bodies held little interest for Hans. There was no mystery, no fascination, nothing that could fire his imagination. In fact, the lack of stars seemed to be some sort of sign that he could not interpret - a warning that, in his haste, he had ignored. Sighing, he bowed his head and stared at the gravel at his feet. Dietrich wondered if he was becoming his own worst enemy, grasping at the last shreds of his fleeting self-confidence. Now was not the time to begin doubting himself. There was still too much to do, too much that could still go wrong.

Another shiver coursed through his body, along with the feeling that he had forgotten something; that somehow he had missed a vital piece of information. Looking up again, Dietrich noticed a guard approaching. Realizing he had overstayed the curfew, he thought better of instigating a confrontation and dutifully returned to the barracks.

Hans was assigned an empty bunk close to Martin's. When the electricity was finally turned off, the activities stopped and everyone methodically went about their bedtime routine. Dietrich stripped down to his t-shirt and shorts, allowing his sweat-laden uniform time to dry overnight.

The thin mattress offered little cushioning between him and the platform bed. His personal comfort mattered little, however, and he considered the odds of getting any sleep to be slim. The wheeze in his chest became more noticeable as he lay prone on the bed, the pounding in his head more pronounced. Fighting his symptoms for as long as possible, he finally exhausted his stamina and miraculously fell off to sleep.

Dietrich had no idea what time it was when the overhead light suddenly came on, abruptly waking everyone from their sleep. He instinctively raised his arm came to cover his eyes against the searing light. As he squinted into the glare he was able to make out two Russian sentries as they roused the major. Late-night visits from the guards usually resulting in late-night interrogations were never welcomed. Dietrich wondered what the major could possibly know that had not already been uncovered after years of incarceration.

The only answer had to be the unauthorized arrival of two new prisoners. A wave of nausea passed over him. Had the guards noticed them and reported them to the commandant? Had the rumors of two new arrivals reached the wrong ears? Had someone betrayed them? The idea that Ernst Mueller

might be involved made him feel even more unsettled. If the Russian authorities had found out, the major would be the man held accountable.

Protestations were made, which centered more on the rude awakening than it did on concern for the major's welfare. Appalled and confused, there was little Hans could do that would not call attention to himself. Forced to maintain his cover he helplessly watched as Major Brückner silently prepared to leave, going through the motions like a man being escorted to his death. Slowly and with complete calm, Brückner wrapped his coat around him, inserted his bare feet into his untied boots and without resistance, was marched away by the guards.

The light went out as soon as the door closed behind the soldiers. A few caustic remarks were made about the "Russian bastards," but it wasn't long before peace was restored and all that was heard was the sound of intermittent snoring from the other end of the barracks.

Wide-awake, Dietrich sat with his back against the coarse headboard, his head centimeters away from the bed above him. Wearily, he wondered if the Russians had learned their interrogation tactics from the SS. At more times than he preferred to remember, Dietrich had been an unwilling party to this sort of late-night questioning. The usual procedure was to take the prisoner, unsuspecting, in the middle of the night when they were at their most vulnerable. With their minds still groggy with sleep, the prisoner was more willing to divulge secrets in exchange for precious sleep. And, more times than not, it worked. At the time, it had been a crude, but harmless way to obtain information, but it felt entirely different from Dietrich's current perspective. But there was little to do now, but wait.

There was no way to gauge the time, as minutes slowly melded into hours. Dietrich spent the time considering every possible angle that could involve the major. He examined every option open to him and Martin should their plan be uncovered. If the conspirators had been betrayed, Brückner's prolonged absence meant he had not given his captors any information. It also meant he had been in the hands of the interrogators for a long time, and in either case Dietrich felt the rescue mission was in jeopardy.

His frustration manifested itself into pent up energy that forced him out of bed, pacing the cold floor in his bare feet. After a few minutes, his feet stinging from the numbing cold, he was ready to retreat to his bunk, but the door opened and Brückner stumbled in, shaking from the cold.

After only a cursory examination, Dietrich found that the major looked tired, but did not show any outward signs of abuse.

"Are you all right?" he asked, helping the major to his cot.

Brückner nodded. "I'm fine," he stuttered between chattering teeth. Without removing his coat, he wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.

Dietrich placed a blanket around the major's shoulders. "What did they want?" he whispered. "Do they know about the rescue plan?"

Brückner gratefully drew the blanket more securely around his body. "They know nothing," he curtly reassured Dietrich.

Bewildered by the turn of events, Dietrich asked, "Then-?"

"One of my men died, Captain," Brückner interrupted, irritated by Dietrich's questions. "He was in the infirmary, the last of the latest victims of a typhus epidemic."

Dietrich backed away a fraction, finally grasping what had taken place. He sighed heavily, at once thankful that the mission had not been compromised, while sympathizing with Brückner's loss. "I am sorry," he said as much to apologize for his insensitivity as well as the loss of another life.

Without looking up, Brückner nodded his head. "His name was Leutenant Karl Herzig," he said, as if it somehow made a difference that Hans knew the dead man's name.

Dietrich nodded in understanding. "You should get some rest."

He helped Brückner lay down; gently pulling off the major's boots and placing them on the floor at the foot of the bed. From the mud wedged in the thick soles, Hans guessed Brückner had accompanied the burial detail to the gravesite.

Mentally exhausted, Dietrich heavily sat on the edge of his bed. In light of Leutenant Herzig's death, he was almost ashamed to feel so relieved. Although he could not have foreseen this unfortunate circumstance, he could empathize with the major. He had experienced this particular injustice many times

in the past. Whether in battle, or in a prison camp, there was little that could be said to justify the death of a fellow soldier. No political rhetoric, no religious ceremony, could mask the reality of another life taken before its time.

Dietrich rubbed his tired eyes. It would be dawn soon and the sleepless night would sooner or later take its toll. Resignedly, he laid down again to wait for morning.

"Hauptmann Dietrich," Major Brückner called out in the dark.

"Yes, sir," he answered.

There was a slight pause, then, barely containing his emotions, Brückner whispered. "I don't want any more men to die here."

Without having to consider his response, Dietrich answered quietly, "No, sir, neither do I."

Dietrich had no idea what the time was. He only knew it was still dark outside and the alarm had sounded, summoning the prisoners to roll call. His head felt as though it was too heavy for his neck to support, and he decided that if he had been asleep, it hadn't been for long. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looked around the dark barracks for the major and found him fully dressed, standing at the end of his bed.

"The guards don't usually come in here," he advised Dietrich as the rest of the men scurried around him, attending to their morning activities. Fastening the few remaining buttons on his coat, he looked at Martin, who remained asleep, and shook his head in fascination. Youth was definitely wasted on the young.

Turning his attention back to Dietrich, he suggested that the captain and Martin remain in the barracks until after the morning census and breakfast. "I don't think I could explain how we acquired two extra prisoners," he remarked. "Willie will see that you get something to eat."

Dietrich nodded his consent as his brain finally made sense of the major's instructions. He stared at the officer for a moment. He was sure Brückner had even less sleep than he, but standing at the end of the bed, the major looked well-rested - almost cheerful.

He noticed, too, that except for a polite inquiry as to the major's health, the men did not seem especially concerned about last night's proceedings. It was as if nothing had happened. _Perhaps this is survival tactics of a different sort_, Dietrich thought as he tried to sort out the peculiar reactions, for it definitely was not any strategy taught in military school.

Taking the opportunity to get some much-needed rest, Hans lay down again when the rest of the prisoners had left. The wheezing in his chest began almost immediately and he quickly sat up as the congestion in his chest induced another fit of coughing.

For the first time since last evening, Martin stirred. "Are you all right?" he mumbled, not bothering to turn over.

Dietrich threw him a sideways glance as he attempted to catch his breath. "I think you could sleep through the second coming of Christ."

Martin's shoulders moved under the blanket as he tried to conceal his amusement. After a pause, he stated earnestly, "It's odd, you know."

Dietrich could guess at many odd occurrences that Martin might be referring to, but he knew the teen was referring to one instance in particular. "What is 'odd'?" he asked, attempting to draw him out.

Martin rolled over onto his back and stared at the bed above him as if he were staring into a dark void. "My father," he said as if it was obvious. "After so many years of not knowing - after being told he was dead - my father is somewhere in this camp, alive and well. Just as I knew he would be."

_And you're unable to reap the rewards of your dedication_, Dietrich thought. _The one person you never gave up on, has given up on you_. He could almost feel the boy's unspoken anguish. But he could not allow Martin to languish in confusion and misery. The matter of the translator, and Martin's part in the deception, still needed to be addressed.

"Martin, your father will act in his own way, in his own time," Dietrich counseled. "But we need your help now - today. We need your ingenuity and creativity, and we need your total concentration." If

Martin remained unconvinced, he reminded him of one more truth, "If we fail today, you will never have the opportunity to see your father again."

The realization must have taken Martin by surprise for he turned quickly to look at Dietrich. The captain's pale, thin face accentuated the dark circles under his eyes; his languid posture evidence of the toll his illness had taken on his body. But Martin could see beyond the enervated facade to the unwavering determination that compelled Hauptmann Dietrich to stay true to his purpose.

Replaying the past three days in his mind, Martin could see that he had been wrong about the captain. Where before he had seen submission to the whims of the Rat Patrol, he now recognized the wisdom in Dietrich's cooperation. If, at times, the captain had appeared too severe, Martin began to understand that it was only out of concern for his welfare.

The captain's motives in accepting this duty remained a mystery, but Martin was certain Hauptmann Dietrich would put the welfare of these prisoners before his own, no matter the consequence. Above all else, Martin was finally able to admit his admiration for the captain, a loyalty that went beyond ethnicity and friendship to a much deeper emotion of trust that bonded men together in adversity and struggle.

"It isn't for my father that I will do what you ask," Martin assured. "It is for you."

Startled by Martin's expression of loyalty, Hans was left speechless. In retrospect, he thought he had never meant to form any kind of relationship with the boy. He had considered Martin to be arrogant, self-centered, rebellious, and untrustworthy. He embodied all of the characteristics of misguided youth; everything that ran contrary to Dietrich's own nature. Yet, despite his best efforts to remain detached, he had been unable to resist Martin. If nothing else, the boy had been a challenge; whether it was due to their peculiar circumstances, or because they had little choice but to cooperate with each other, the two adversaries had bonded. And from that imposed bond had grown a true affection. Now, mollified by Martin's declaration, Hans humbly accepted his allegiance.

Their newfound affection left them both a little uncomfortable. Nervously clearing his throat, Martin decided it was best to discuss his part in the day's agenda. Animated, he sat on the edge of the bunk facing the captain. "I'll need an accomplice," he began, "but it can't be you. It has to be one of the POWs."

Dietrich considered his request. "Corporal Rundstedt," he concluded. "He said he was willing to help."

Martin smiled for the first time in days. "Perfect!" he exclaimed. Filled with enthusiasm, he hurriedly began to put his boots on. "Let's find him and see if he's still interested," he said, tying his laces. He looked up at Hans, who had not moved. Sitting up, he asked, "What is it?"

"We have to wait until it gets closer to ten o'clock," Dietrich instructed. Before Martin could ask "why," he explained, "If news of this gets out before the officers are informed, it could be disastrous."

Disappointed, Martin sat back on the cot. Of course, the captain was right. Corporal Rundstedt would certainly cooperate, but it would be difficult to contain news of this magnitude if the POW accidentally allowed it to leak out. "What shall we do in the meantime?" he asked eagerly.

Dietrich positioned himself against the headboard, drew his knees up to his chin, and rested his head on his arms folded across his knees. Turning his head far enough to look at Martin, he warned drolly, "Avoid trouble." He then added, more seriously, "And wait."

Martin grinned at Dietrich's attempt at humor, finding the captain's banter strangely comforting. The grin disappeared when he remembered the disappointment he felt about his father. Sighing in resignation, he decided to concentrate on the solace he had found in his friendship with Hauptmann Dietrich. "Do you ever tire of being right?" he asked, baiting the captain.

Dietrich raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Of course not," he said. "I'm an officer." He shrugged, pleasantly supercilious. "And officers are always right."

Dressed and groomed with as much accuracy as one could obtain without a mirror, Dietrich busied himself by drawing a rough sketch of the camp and explaining the layout to Martin. "There is a

room in the administrative building," he said, pointing to the square building in the middle of the camp, "where Major Brückner and I will meet with the other officers. We will need a few minutes to explain the plan for tomorrow. How long will you be able to detain Znosko?"

Martin thoughtfully considered how he would hold the attention of the Pole, and for how long. "It depends," he said mischievously, "on how long Willie is able to put up a fight."

Nonplussed, Dietrich inclined his head, questioning Martin's strategy. "Just what is it that you propose to do to Corporal Rundstedt?" he asked suspecting he wouldn't like the answer.

Martin had to laugh. He had seen that look of skepticism before and knew that the captain was ready to disapprove of the plan. "You needn't worry," he guaranteed, "my plan is foolproof."

"Nothing is 'foolproof,'" Dietrich cautioned.

"Here is my plan," Martin said as he drew his legs up underneath him, kneeling on the bed next to Dietrich. "Willie and I will start with a heated argument over whose cigarettes these are," he said touching the breast pocket holding Dietrich's cigarettes and lighter. "Just as this Znosko fellow passes by, I flash the lighter. We then stage a mock fight, preventing him from passing. If he's as greedy as Major Brückner says he is, he will remain long enough to bargain for the lighter. With luck, it will give you and the major enough time to explain things to the others."

Dietrich sat back on the bed. _It could work_, he thought, attempting to conceptualize Martin's plan. If Herr Znosko was the mercenary Brückner described, he would definitely be interested in obtaining the valuable lighter.

"It could definitely work," the captain whispered to himself. "Let's find Corporal Rundstedt," he announced, hoping his instincts were right.

Hans and Martin found Willie engaged in repairing the railing that ran along the front porch of the camp's administrative building. From the state of disrepair, it was obvious this project had been going on for some time.

"Are you fixing this or tearing it down?" Dietrich asked, as he examined one of the broken spindles.

Willie glanced at Hans to his left and then at Martin to his right. "A little of both," he answered, laughing. "As long as I work on this porch, I am not digging latrines." The corporal sized up a long beam, then decided it needed to be shortened. As he sawed the post, the noise obscured their conversation. "Do you need something?" he asked, trying to appear casual, even though he knew he had been approached for a reason.

"We need you," Dietrich responded, while expertly eying the long axis of another piece of wood.

"Is there someplace where we can talk?" Martin asked, busying himself by looking through Willie's toolbox for a nonexistent gadget.

Willie had suspected all along that these two had arrived at the camp for a reason. They were treated differently, they kept to themselves, and they avoided the guards as much as they could. His work slowed for a moment as Willie considered his options. He could stay out of harm's way by asking the two newcomers to leave, or he could keep his promise and provide whatever help was needed.

"I will need some more wood soon," he said, beginning to saw with more fervor. "Meet me at the utility building behind the mess hall in fifteen minutes."

True to his word, the corporal reappeared on schedule and alone. He barely acknowledged their presence before lifting the wooden bar that secured the door to the utility building. Willie gave the door a strong push, and it responded by opening inwards into the darkened storage area.

After a quick look around to be sure there were no guards nearby, Dietrich and Martin followed Corporal Rundstedt inside.

The floor consisted of compacted earth, now moist from the run-off of the recent snowfall. In the shadow of a stray beam of sunlight, an unidentified rodent scampered across the back of the room, apparently disturbed by the sudden intrusion. The building smelled of cut wood, but it wasn't the fresh aroma of newly hewn timber; rather it was the odor of dampness and decay.

"You don't need to worry about the guards," Willie told Hans, as the captain took one last look before stepping over the threshold. "As long as I leave the door opened, they don't bother me. I think

they're afraid of catching something in here." With his hand tucked inside the pockets of his wool jacket, Willie smiled as much to reassure himself as to placate Hans and Martin.

"They don't seem overly concerned with your activities," Dietrich observed.

Willie seated himself on a small pile of kindling. "They trust me." He looked up at Hans and shrugged. "I guess I just have one of _those_ faces."

Hans studied Willie's face. He supposed the corporal's youthful appearance could be considered "honest," but he suspected that under the boyish visage lay a cunning mind. Whether Willie was friend or foe, however, was now a mute point, Dietrich had to trust him with the volatile information.

"As you may have guessed," Hans began matter-of-factly, "Martin and I are not your average prisoners. We are here to liberate this camp."

The corporal's response was contemplative, almost nonreactive. And it was exactly what Dietrich had expected. Apparently, the young man knew the value of discretion. "Yesterday, you pledged your help," the captain continued as he cast his gaze downward, then lifted his eyes to meet Willie's. "I need to know if you intend to fulfill your pledge."

Willie's gaze remained locked with Dietrich's. "I would not be here now, if I didn't," he answered solemnly. "But I have a question." The young man quizzically looked at Martin, then back to Dietrich. "How do you plan to accomplish this 'liberation'? You are only two unarmed men."

Dietrich took a steadying breath. There wasn't much time left until Major Brückner's meeting. Unsure if he should divulge the whole plan before the major had a chance to speak with his staff, he opted for an abbreviated explanation. "We will have help from the outside," he explained, "but if the arrangements are not finalized today, tomorrow may not matter."

"What do you need me to do?"

Martin stepped between Dietrich and Willie. "You and I need to detain the camp's interpreter so he will not be able to attend Major Brückner's meeting with the other officers."

"The major is meeting with the rest to inform them of the rescue?" Willie asked.

Dietrich nodded. "The instructions for tomorrow's rescue will be passed on by the subordinate officers to the rest of the men. If Znosko is allowed to attend, we will never be able to efficiently disseminate the information to the staff or anyone else. What could be an organized exodus might turn into mass suicide."

Willie studied Hans and Martin. He had no reason to doubt them, and more than anything else he wanted to believe them. Up to this point the war had consisted of nothing more than learning new ways to dig half-tracks out of the snow and ice of the Russian steppe. If, as they said, an escape had been planned, then it was his duty to assist them in whatever way he could. His chance to be a real soldier had finally come.

Standing, he effectively threw in his lot with the others. "How do you plan to _detain_ Herr Znosko?" he asked Martin.

Smiling slyly, Martin replied, "Do you smoke?"

"No," Willie answered.

"You do now."

The remainder of the meeting took no more than a few minutes as Martin explained the finer points of Willie's role in deterring Znosko. The corporal appeared eager and willing and Dietrich was satisfied that the two young men would successfully orchestrate their scheme.

"I have to meet Major Brückner back at the barracks," he announced. Dietrich looked at his wrist, checking the time, then remembered he had left his watch with his other things at the inn. Squinting at the sun"s position in the sky, he was sure it was getting close to ten o'clock. "Are you two prepared?"

Martin and Willie nodded in unison. "I'll be able to point out Herr Znosko to Martin," Willie assured the captain. "We will handle him when the time comes."

Hans hesitated. The young men seemed to feed off of each other's enthusiasm and he feared that in their zealousness they might overlook the volatile nature of their situation. As he looked at the two

boys, a cold shudder took Dietrich by surprise. It was a familiar regret, a certain distaste he had experienced many times in the past whenever he had sent such young men into battle, knowing their chances of survival were slim. Now, two and a half years since his last battle he found himself in the same dilemma.

"I want to be sure you understand what will happen if you're unsuccessful, or if we're caught," he spoke quietly, as if, in accepting their fate, they would absolve his own guilt. Unable to meet their eyes, Dietrich closed his eyes and continued, "You will probably be either shot or hung." He sighed uneasily. "And your slow, painful deaths will be an example to the rest of the prisoners," he finished, breathing with some difficulty.

Willie understood the essence of Hans' warning, but he had been incarcerated by the Russians for almost two years, feeling that every day that slipped away a part of him had also been lost. If this was his only chance to save what was left of his life, he had every intention of taking advantage of the opportunity.

"Every day in this place is a living death," he said earnestly, all youthful pretense set aside. "I only have one choice left to me, and that is to help you."

"I knew what the risks were when I got on that truck yesterday morning," Martin added. "There is no turning back now."

Dietrich looked at Martin and Willie in admiration. Their compliance had eased his conscience and their enthusiasm had eradicated any doubt he might have held about the two young men. Silently, he nodded his agreement.

Having finalized their plans, Willie handed a bundle of wood to Martin. "Might as well make yourself useful," he said, picking up his own part of the load. "Follow me back to the office and try to look busy."

It was close to ten when Dietrich and Brückner walked out of the barracks and headed towards the meeting place. By all appearances it was a normal day in the camp, if one could call life behind a barbed-wire fence normal. The imprisoned soldiers went about their daily routine while the guards watched with disinterested detachment. Settled into a repetitive rhythm of work, eat, and sleep, they had all performed their rituals until they no longer recognized them as anything out of the ordinary. The expressionless faces of the prisoners were equaled only by the blank stares of the Russians.

_Little do they realize_, Dietrich thought, _that tomorrow their mundane existence will be turned on its ear._

With his hands casually tucked in his pockets, Hans walked beside the major, presenting a confident facade to anyone curious enough to watch them. Pretending you belonged always drew less suspicion than demonstrating that you didn't. To Deitrich's delight, neither Martin nor Willie exhibited any sign of recognition, as they passed them on the steps of the front porch.

Hans held the door for the major as they entered the administrative building. The interior was clean and bright. Three light fixtures placed at equal distances on the ceiling lighted the single hallway that ran the length of the building. Large sparsely furnished rooms, three on each side, lined the hall that culminated in a large conference room at the opposite end of the building. The sounds of tapping typewriters, muffled phone conversations, and laughter floated around them. The smell of paper, ink, and red tape confirmed the building as the operational center of the camp.

As they approached the end of the hallway, a single guard stepped in their path to inspect the two officers. With only a cursory glance, he immediately recognized Major Brückner, and allowed him to pass.

On closer inspection, the guard detained Dietrich. Moving closer to Hans, the Russian stared quizzically at him, their eyes meeting for a moment before Dietrich defiantly stared past him. The examination lasted only a instant, but Hans felt it was an eternity.

"What is name?" the guard asked in alcohol-drenched broken English.

Forced to back away from the odor on the man's breath, Dietrich answered, "Bauer. Hans Bauer." Knowing that his adversary wasn't convinced, he added sparingly, "I'm new."

From his physical appearance the Russian had no doubt that this person was one of the prisoners, but he remained puzzled by a face he did not recognize. Unfortunately, his English wasn't good enough to continue the interrogation, and he had no knowledge of German. Frustrated by the multi-layered language barrier, he had no choice but to allow the new prisoner to pass.

Hans could feel the guard's cold hard stare at his back as he followed the major into the room. He doubted his presence in the camp would remain a secret much longer, but it was a risk he had had to take.

"What did he ask you?" Brückner asked, pulling Dietrich aside.

"Just my name," Dietrich responded. "He suspects something, I'm sure."

Brückner nodded once. "I don't think we need to worry about it now. The lower ranks aren't interested enough to make inquiries to the commandant. You're safe for the time being."

Although he agreed with the major's opinion, Dietrich could not help but feel his time was marked. But he tentatively studied at the men assembled in the room. He guessed that they were close to his age, although their tired, hollow expressions made them appear much older. As with most of the prisoners in the camp, they were thin and undernourished; and profoundly curious about the stranger in their midst.

Dietrich began to worry if they would be receptive to the idea of a rescue attempt. If things went as planned, the physical demands on the men would be minimal, but there were too many variables that could affect the outcome of tomorrow's maneuvers, and each man's survival might well be determined by his ability to persevere.

The captain sat in one of the plain wooden chairs at the end of the rectangular table that occupied the middle of the room. The conference room was large and austere, and ran the width of the structure, perpendicular to the axis of the building. There was one window behind Hans and another across the table from him. Both windows were opened a few inches, allowing a cold draft to waft through the room. Pulling his collar a little tighter around his neck, he exchanged glances with the guard and waited patiently for the meeting to begin.

"We must wait for two more men," Brückner murmured as he paced behind Dietrich. "And Znosko."

As if on cue, the tardy officers appeared in the doorway, saluted the major, and offered their apologies for being late. Nodding an unspoken greeting to the others, they quizzically peered at Dietrich, then took their places at the table.

Pausing to look out the window, the major caught sight of Znosko as he nonchalantly approached the building. If Martin and Willie were to execute their plan, they would have to do it soon - and he and Dietrich would need to time their announcement to coincide with the commotion outside.

The Russian guard was about to voice his objection to Major Brückner addressing his men without the interpreter present, but his attention was soon drawn to the ruckus outside the window. Pushing Brückner away from the window, the guard craned his neck in order to get a better view of the disturbance.

Martin had Willie in an impressive chokehold as they fiercely struggled on the frozen ground. He was yelling every curse word he had ever learned, while Willie fought to remove his hands firmly clenched around his throat.

"Get off of me," Willie adamantly croaked, not expecting such a zealous performance from Martin.

When he realized Willie was turning a pale shade of gray, Martin loosened his hands around the corporal's neck. "Not until you give them back, you bastard!" Martin growled loud enough for the guard to hear, still holding Willie to the ground.

Mustering as much strength as he could, Willie expertly jerked his body hard enough to throw Martin aside. He barely had enough time to pounce on his opponent when a rough hand grabbed him by the collar and pulled him off Martin. The burly guard - easily twice either boy's size - immediately reached down and yanked Martin to his feet.

From the corner of his eye, Willie could see Herr Znosko approaching. He couldn't let him pass - it was too soon. Willie dangled like a puppet from the guard's hand as he wildly reached out to continue his fight with Martin. When the two Germans began to argue hysterically, the Russian wisely enlisted the camp's interpreter's help to determine what had happened.

Obviously annoyed with being sidetracked by such trivial matters, Znosko could barely contain his contempt for the two embattled young men. "What is going on here?" he asked, not entirely concerned. Interpreting fights between the prisoners was not on Znosko's agenda today. "Quickly," he ordered, "I'm supposed to be elsewhere."

"He stole my cigarettes!" Willie yelled, accusing Martin of the theft.

Znosko rolled his eyes heavenward. He definitely was not being paid to mediate petty crimes. "It's nothing," the Pole instructed the guard. "Put them to work, perhaps they can use their energy in more useful ways."

Muttering some Russian sarcasm, the guard smirked as he let go of the two men. Using his rifle, he shoved Willie from behind, sending the corporal stumbling towards Martin.

"Find some other way to occupy yourselves," Znosko spat his instructions to Martin and Willie. Turning on his heel, he was about to walk away when Martin caught up with him.

"I can prove they're mine," Martin insisted, as he stepped in front of Znosko, his palm extended, cradling the gold lighter.

"I don't give a damn-" Znosko stopped mid-sentence when he caught a glance of Martin's "proof." The lumbering guard returned to deal with Martin, but was summarily dismissed by the interpreter. "Where did you get that?" he asked, suddenly more interested in Martin than in his meeting.

"I stole it," Martin proudly admitted. "And these," he added, proudly displaying the pack of cigarettes.

"From whom?" Znosko asked, snearing appreciatively at the valuable items in the German boy's hand.

Martin looked slyly at his new ally. "From a Russian officer. He stole them from a German officer. I don't think either one of them deserved it."

"Then you are nothing but a petty thief," Znosko pointed out accusatorily.

Martin deliberately folded the lighter into the palm of his hand. Maintaining eye contact with Znosko, he stuffed the cigarettes into his shirt pocket. "Perhaps you recognize yourself in others," he said, knowingly provoking the Pole.

When Znosko grabbed him and threw him against the side of the building, Martin realized he reached his safety limit with his last remark. The plan was working, he reminded himself as his head bounced off the solid wall. In fact, they had detained Znosko longer than expected - he was sure Dietrich and Brückner had had plenty of time to perform their part in the conspiracy.

"You little Nazi brat," Znosko snarled as he held Martin against the wall. "I could have you shot."

Martin had no reason to doubt that Znosko was anything but serious. The man seemed to exude malice. Still, he wasn't quite ready to back down; if he gave in, his early capitulation might seem contrived. "Just like Polish swine to let someone else do their dirty work," he sneered.

Without warning, Znosko flung Martin to the ground and finished the fight with a swift kick to the teen's midsection.

The situation was spiraling out of control when Willie intervened. Putting himself between Martin and Znosko, he grabbed the lighter out of Martin's clenched fist. "Here!" he offered the lighter to Znosko. "Take it, please!" He grabbed the Pole's hand, forcing him to accept the object of contention. "My friend, he doesn't know when to keep quiet." Willie was no longer acting. The anger in Znosko's eyes was as real as the injury he had inflicted on Martin. "Please take it and forget this happened."

Znosko rolled the lighter over in his hand. It definitely was a valuable piece and would bring a lot of money on the black market. He looked with disgust on Martin who remained curled into a ball of pain on the ground. "The next time I won't be so easy on you," he warned the boy as he stuffed the lighter into his pocket, accepting the bribe. To Willie, he said, "Make sure your friend stays out of my way."

Grabbing the cigarettes from Martin's pocket, Znosko left Willie to help Martin. Happy with his newly acquired treasure, Znosko strode through the assembled crowd and made his way to his morning appointment.

The crowd quickly dissipated when the commotion died down. Willie helped Martin up from the ground. "Are you insane?" he asked incredulously. "You nearly got yourself killed."

Martin leaned against the building, attempting to catch his breath. He winced once, then looked at Willie. "He's a pig." He pronounced his judgement between deep, heavy breaths. "He's too afraid to do anything to me."

"He wasn't too afraid to kick the shit out of you," Willie observed.

Martin felt his aching midsection and grinned. "He didn't even break anything," he said, feigning indifference.

"Let me help you back to the barracks," Willie said, offering his arm for support.

Martin shook off Willie's aid when he looked up and found his father staring at them from a distance. Holding his head erect, he immediately straightened in what amounted to a display of resolute defiance. Since his father had refused to show him any affection, he certainly would not accept his sympathy. Dusting himself off, Martin turned and walked away.

Major Brückner was in the middle of delineating work details when Jaroslaw Znosko appeared in the doorway. He suspiciously eyed the officer. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked the major.

Brückner rose from where he had been seated, primarily to block Znosko's view of Dietrich - a gesture the Pole mistook for a courtesy. "We were just finishing, Herr Znosko," the major replied calmly, "I was just handing out next week's work assignments."

Znosko picked up one of the handwritten sheets, glanced at its contents, then tossed it back on the table. "You need a special meeting for this?" he asked, obviously suspecting ulterior motives. Without waiting for an answer, he verbally admonished the guard, then waved his hand, dismissing his rebuttal. "You know the rules about meeting without me," he said, turning his ire on Major Brückner.

Face-to-face with the Pole, Brückner did not back down. "You were late."

"It doesn't matter. A rule is a rule. There are no excuses."

"Then perhaps you can tell me what you took from that boy. There are also rules for stealing from the prisoners."

Znosko found himself without a defense. There were too many witnesses to deny his involvement, and to admit that he had painfully coerced the young men into trading the lighter for his silence would implicate him even further. The major was holding the winning hand. A word from Brückner about his unwarranted interaction with the prisoners would not pass the attention of the authorities and his job would be in jeopardy.

"I will ignore your infraction in my report to the commandant," Znosko acquiesced, knowing he was losing the battle. "Perhaps you would be kind enough to fill me in on the details."

Znosko hated losing and Major Brückner could not help but smile at his chagrin; he enjoyed playing his trump card. "Certainly," Brückner answered politely, watching Znosko squirm. "I'm always willing to help."

Znosko held the major's gaze for a moment, then angrily stalked out of the building. He really had little reason to be upset. All-in-all it had been a profitable morning. Withdrawing the lighter from his pocket, he held it in his hand for a moment, appreciating its weight. Fortunately, he thought, gold knew no territorial or political boundaries - it had a language all its own.

138


	16. Chapter 16

_**Chapter 16**_

The map of the prison compound had been folded and unfolded so many times it was beginning to fray at the creases. Troy carefully spread the detailed rendering out on his bed for what would be the last time. This was the last opportunity for him and his men to study the drawing, to coordinate their positions, and to commit the plan to memory.

Troy checked his watch for the tenth time in the past hour. It would soon be one o'clock; in a few minutes the rest of the Rat Patrol would arrive. For the few years they had been together they had worked as a team, a group of men so tightly bonded to each other it seemed they could predict each other's heartbeats. And Sam Troy had always been their unofficial leader - the man who directed their missions, the one who shared the acclaim for their victories, and shouldered the blame for their failures. He had worked hard and fought harder - the solid heart of the Rat Patrol.

The leadership role had come naturally to him, but it had never been easy. The burden of responsibility for the lives of his friends was a privilege he neither wanted nor enjoyed. And it was one of the reasons he had never accepted a promotion to an officer's rank. He often wondered how Dietrich managed the pressure. Behind the mask of control, Troy knew the emotional toll the power of command could take. Officer or not, Dietrich remained, at the core, a human being, dictating the destinies of other human beings

Troy considered the enigma that was Hauptmann Dietrich. The two men had been cut from the same fabric, but spun from different threads. They shared a strength of spirit, a mental toughness that they had both acquired over the years, but from entirely disparate circumstances. Life had been hard on Sam Troy. He had learned at an early age that weakness was not conducive to survival, and he brought his instinct for survival to the battlefield.

Hans Dietrich had been hard on himself. Fighting for a proud heritage that, in the carnage of war, had lost its luster, he had drawn on his integrity for courage and strength in a no-win situation. Throughout their intricately carved history they remained true to a shared sense of right and wrong, an understood morality that remained unspoken between them. Despite holding divergent loyalties, they shared a connection that neither man could refute.

"Troy!"

The sound of Jack Moffitt's urgent voice drew the sergeant back into the present. For a brief moment he had been caught with his guard down, but just as quickly, he regained his composure.

"Did I interrupt something?" Moffitt asked, good humor masking his real concern.

"Just thinking," Troy answered.

Moffitt could guess what the American was thinking. "He can do it, Sam," he quietly encouraged his partner. "You know that better than I do."

Troy laughed faintly under his breath and shook his head. Moffitt's insight was uncanny. "Yeah," he agreed, glad for the corroboration, "I guess I do."

With the arrival of Tully and Hitch, the time for camaraderie came to an end. Troy looked at his watch, then at the two corporals. "You're late," he said sternly.

Tully removed his hat and stood before Troy and Moffit, while Hitch brought the extra chair up closer to the bed.

"There was this girl in town," Tully explained, unapologetically. "She needed help with a flat tire on her bicycle." He shrugged wistfully. "What else could we do?"

Troy smiled knowingly. Tully was a sucker for a beautiful face. "Well, it's nice to see you could spare a little time for the rest of us," he replied, his voice tinted with good-natured sarcasm. "If you two are finished rescuing damsels in distress, maybe we can get down to business."

"Fine with me, Sarge," Hitch chimed innocently, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Troy ignored Hitch's posturing, directing his attention at the map. The contours of the area were marked in concentric circles spiraling over the region at ten-foot intervals. He pointed to the highest points closest to the west wall of the camp.

"We'll take up position here . . . and here." He indicated two small hills on either side of the western wall of the camp. "They line the prisoners up in four columns, two to each truck and form something like human conveyor belts to unload the cargo from the ship to the trucks that carry it away."

"But there won't be any cargo to unload tomorrow, right Sarge?" Hitch asked.

"Right. The ship that docks there tomorrow will be one of ours. If everything goes according to schedule, the boat will get there around 1:30. At 1:45 the guards will start escorting the prisoners to the docks. That's where we come in." Troy produced an enlarged photograph of the unloading procedure provided by intelligence. "This is how they usually line up. There are six guards, two at the boat, two watching the middle of the lines, and two at the end, near the trucks."

"And we take out the guards," Tully murmured to himself.

"Six guards and four of us." Hitch shrugged. "Piece of cake."

"Not exactly." Moffitt inched nearer to the photo laying atop the map on Troy's bed. "There are two mounted artillery units on either side of the dock," he explained. "If anyone gets out of hand, they open fire."

"That would explain only six guards for 250 men," Tully noted.

"So we take the arty out first," Hitch suggested, "then take care of the rest."

Troy straightened from where he had been hunched over the diagrams. "Only one hitch," he announced ominously. "No guns, no knives." He glanced at the puzzled faces surrounding him. "The Russians are technically our allies. This isn't war. We can't kill them."

Moffitt sat back in his chair, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "Well, it will make things more difficult, but it can be done."

"We'll have to get there early," Troy continued, "disarm the artillery units, then disable the trucks. Once the guards and prisoners are in place, we each take a guard, two at the front of the line, and two at the back, then take their places." Troy took a deep breath and let it go slowly before as if he had just realized the magnitude of the project. "On Dietrich's signal, the POWs make a break for the ship. We take care of the other two guards in the middle, and hopefully no one gets killed."

"What if Dietrich's not there?" Hitch asked.

Troy stared at the documents spread out before him. "He will be," he answered confidently.

Hitch, Tully, and Moffitt shared a doubtful look. None of them shared Troy's complete conviction.

"Troy," Moffitt spoke for the three men, "we all want to believe Dietrich will be there tomorrow-"

"But?" Troy scathingly interrupted, anticipating an argument.

"But we need an alternative plan, just in case." Moffitt loathed pointing out the obvious, but for whatever reason, Troy had a blind spot the size of a black hole when it came to Dietrich.

Troy knew they were right. He had sent Dietrich, sick and injured, into the lion's den where anything could go wrong, at any minute. A slip of the tongue or an errant glance would be all they needed to indict him and end the mission. Still, admitting that the captain might fail was admitting the possibility of his own failure, something that Sam Troy was not prepared to do. If the slightest chance existed that he would not join the others, Dietrich would have entrusted his responsibility with someone else.

Dietrich would have a backup plan, Troy was sure of it. The captain was cunning and resilient. He only needed to convince the rest of the Rat Patrol.

"Put yourself in Dietrich's shoes," he tersely instructed the rest of the group, feeling unnecessarily pressured to offer an explanation. "He's made contact with some of the higher ranking officers. They've

accepted the plan. By this evening the whole camp will be buzzing. If they haven't guessed it by now, they'll know that the new prisoner is somehow involved in the liberation. Nothing goes unnoticed in a POW camp."

His brow furrowed in concentration, and Troy rose from the bed to pace the room. "Suddenly Dietrich is highly visible, but he knows not everyone can be trusted. The stakes are higher and the odds that he'll go without mention to the authorities are dropping. He won't take the chance that he'll go undetected. He'll have passed on the responsibility for giving the signal to someone else. I'm sure of it."

"And what if he's caught and interrogated?" Moffitt took Troy's logic one step further. "Who's to say he won't give up the entire mission?" Looking the sergeant in the eye, he tried to gauge Troy's acceptance of his hypothesis. Detecting a hint of denial, he added, "He's only human, Troy."

Troy returned the Englishman's hardened stare. "He won't." He was no longer in the mood to debate. "I know he won't."

Moffitt hesitated, arguing with himself over the benefits of continuing this deliberation. Deciding there were none, he backed off. "I sincerely hope you're right."

Troy softened, but only a little. "Don't worry," he assured them, "I am."

Martin looked up expectantly from where he sat, huddled on the bunk bed. "Well?" he asked. His abdominal muscles were still experiencing the repercussions of the morning's injury, but he was anxious to hear if his suffering had been worth the trouble.

"It was fine," Dietrich answered. "Everything is ready for tomorrow." He looked from Martin to Willie, who hovered nearby. "What's wrong?" he asked, noting that Martin's color was pasty, and as much as he tried to hide his discomfort, it was obvious the boy was in pain.

"Nothing," Martin responded, throwing Willie a surreptitious glance as a signal not to say anything.

Willie ignored the warning. "That Polish bastard kicked him," he explained.

"It's nothing," Martin insisted, not wanting to draw any undue attention to himself. He had lived up to his promise and by doing so, had become an invaluable member of the rescue team. He didn't want his accomplishment to be diminished by an inconsequential injury. And the very last thing he wanted was Dietrich's sympathy.

Hans' first instinct was to check the damage to be sure it was nothing serious, but instead, he decided to honor Martin's implicit request to be taken at his word. The underlying pride that ran through the teen sometimes bordered on obstinacy, but it was the one characteristic Dietrich could identify with.

"You will let me know if you're not well." His order was couched as a request - the only appropriate way Dietrich could express his concern.

Grateful for the captain's discretion, Martin nodded his head in agreement. "What do we do now?" he asked, still reveling in his first taste of success.

"We wait," Dietrich said as he sat heavily on the bed opposite Martin's cot. The tightness in his chest was getting progressively worse; every breath was punctuated by a faint wheeze. "Try to get some rest," he yawned, rubbing his face.

After the morning's excitement, Hans thought it odd that he should feel so tired, until he felt the heat radiating from his face. The fever that had sporadically attacked his body was apparently back to stay, and getting worse. He lay down stiffly, every muscle aching in unison, and closed his eyes, waiting for the myriad discomforts to pass. When at last he opened his eyes again, Dietrich found himself staring at Willie's expectant face.

"Can I get you anything?" the young man asked.

Dietrich had to smile at the boy's dog-like loyalty. "Some water, please," he answered. He would need liquids to combat the fever, and Willie needed something to keep him busy.

"I'll be right back," the corporal promised, buttoning the few buttons left on his coat before he went out on his assignment.

"Thank you, Willie," Dietrich mumbled into his pillow. Seconds later he surrendered to exhaustion; he didn't hear the corporal leave.

Dietrich awoke to a haze of indistinct faces shrouded in the brightness of the ceiling light. He made an unsuccessful attempt to distinguish the muffled voices that floated around him, and concentrated, instead on the rough cloth that lay across his forehead. Someone dabbed at his face with another rag - the cold dampness a welcome relief from the heat his body was generating, until a sudden fit of coughing forced him to sit upright, disrupting what little comfort he had enjoyed.

"This is the man who is going to lead us out of here?" someone asked skeptically.

"If he lives that long," another voiced answered.

Out of the corner of his eye Dietrich caught a glimpse of Martin as he suddenly rose from his bed, jumping to his defense. Breathing with difficulty, it took a concentrated effort on Dietrich's part to reach out and stop him. "Martin, don't!" he ordered as he caught the boy by his arm. With his eyes closed, he tightened his grip on the boy's arm and took another deep breath. "Don't," he said again, a little more evenly.

Looking up at the faces that surrounded him, Dietrich was about to respond to his critics when Major Brückner interceded.

"I suggest you all leave Hans alone and prepare yourselves for tomorrow." The stern command effectively disseminated the crowd, but didn't quiet the murmurs of skepticism.

"You really can't blame them, you know," the major said as he seated himself next to Hans on the bunk bed. "You don't look much like a revolutionary leader."

Dietrich ran his hands through his sweat-soaked hair. He didn't care for the anonymous opinions expressed about him or his abilities, and he didn't appreciate the major's evaluation. "I'm not," he answered curtly.

Frustrated by his own inadequacy, Dietrich balled up the rag that had fallen in his lap from his forehead, and forcefully threw it at the footboard of the bed.

The sudden outburst of temper made Martin jump, but Brückner remained undisturbed. He calmly accepted a cup of water from Willie and offered it to Dietrich. "Drink this," he ordered, "you'll feel better."

Swallowing his sudden display of misplaced pride, Dietrich compliantly accepted the drink. The water was fresh and cold; he could feel it course through him, soothing his irritated throat and cooling his overheated body. Inhaling as deeply as he was able, he handed the empty cup back to Willie.

"Do you want anything to eat? More water?" Willie asked, eager to provide what aid he could.

"No, thank you," Hans answered, beginning to feel suffocated by all the attention. He needed to get out of the barracks and away from the prying eyes and endless questions. "I need to use the latrine," he explained, knowing no one would object to his leaving for that purpose.

"I'll go with you," Martin offered, concerned for the captain's welfare.

"No," Hans answered a little too quickly. He paused, then added less harshly, "I'll be back in a few minutes." Rising unsteadily from the bed, he waded through the group of curious men gathered in the middle of the room and quickly exited the building.

It was another frigid night. The moon and stars were obscured by gathering clouds, making the outside world dark and the path to the latrine treacherous. Taking his time, Dietrich followed the long wall of the barracks with his hand. At the end of the wall he turned to his right. Twenty feet in front of him lay his destination.

It took some time, but his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. The cold breeze, blowing in from the west, caressed his warm head and penetrated the wool uniform. Closing his eyes, he raised his face to the wind, standing perfectly still for a moment to take advantage of the unexpected relief. He thought he could stand there all night, except another spell of coughing forced him to retreat to the shadows of the barracks where he could lean against the wall for support.

Dietrich thought the earth had moved under his feet until he realized that someone had grabbed him and thrown him against the adjoining wall of the building. Struggling to breathe, as well as keep his balance, he instinctively struck out blindly to fend off his attacker. The assailant, however, had the element of surprise in his favor and Dietrich found himself pinned against the building, an elbow at his throat, and something sharp digging into his ribs.

"What have you gotten my son involved in?"

There was no mistaking his opponent. "Why don't _you_ ask him?" Hans challenged the elder Mueller. The sharp object penetrated deeper and he could feel the cold steel tip pressing against his skin.

"I want you to put a stop to this plan of yours," Mueller hissed, his face inches from Dietrich's. "Then take my son and get out of here."

Ernst Mueller knew about the escape plan and was worried about his son's welfare. Dietrich decided that was exactly the ammunition he needed. "For a father who won't even acknowledge his son's presence, don't you think this sudden attack of paternal concern isn't a bit extreme?" That was it. He had hit a nerve.

Mueller couldn't afford to kill the stranger, but he had every intention of convincing him to leave by other means. Clutching Dietrich's collar, Mueller attempted to throw the intruder to the ground.

But Dietrich had anticipated Mueller's move. Quickly bringing his arm up, he broke the man's grasp on his jacket, then drove his elbow into his opponent's midsection. With Mueller doubled over in pain, he grabbed the hand still holding the makeshift knife, and in one swift movement, twisted Mueller's arm behind him, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Dietrich straddled Mueller's back as he lay face down in the mud. Applying just enough pressure to the man's hand, he forced Mueller to release the knife. "You listen to me . . . you son-of-a-bitch," the captain gasped between labored breaths. "Your son is here . . . because of you."

Mueller elicted a moan as Dietrich tightened his grip.

"I am here . . . because of you." Dietrich paused, trying to catch his breath, then whispered threateningly in Mueller's ear, "If you do anything . . . _anything_ to stop me . . . I _will_ keep my promise . . . but you will be going home in a coffin."

Ernst Mueller finally understood the machinations behind the plot to liberate the camp. "Who sent you?" he asked, out of the side of his mouth, the other side of his face was in the mud. One eye stared up at Dietrich like a frightened fish.

Dietrich got up and allowed Mueller to turn over. "The Americans," he answered truthfully. "They apparently want you back," he spat at Mueller.

Their battle over, Mueller raised himself on one elbow and stared disbelievingly at Hans. Throwing his head back, he began laughing to himself. Only when he noticed the look of puzzlement on Dietrich's face did he stop. "I don't want to go back," he said, suddenly serious. Before Dietrich could question why, he continued, "The Allies left me to rot in this pig sty and now they want me back? Doesn't it make you wonder why?"

"Perhaps they wish to pin a medal on you," Dietrich snapped.

"Perhaps they want to pin their mistakes on me." Mueller sat up, as the captain sat back on his knees. "Think about it. Everyone in Berlin is pointing fingers at each other. The British and Americans don't trust the Russians, and the Russians don't trust anyone. All the Allies need is one scapegoat - one person to blame when things go wrong. And who better than a traitor; a man without a country? The Russians and Americans will both accuse me of spying on each other, and I will be left without a defense."

Dietrich considered Mueller's testimony. In all probability he was right, but he refused to mollify him by agreeing. "I think you place too much importance on yourself," he answered as he slowly rose from where he knelt on the ground.

"You despise me, don't you?" Mueller asked unnecessarily as he looked up at the captain, who towered over him.

"I think you're a selfish coward." Dietrich's anger was rooted more in his concern for Martin than in his feelings for Ernst Mueller. "You have a son who loves you, a family that needs you, and you turn your back on them simply because you're afraid to face the consequences of your activities. Frankly, I think your family deserves better than you."

Obviously disturbed by Dietrich's observation, Mueller retreated. "Don't involve my family in this," he stiffly ordered.

Dietrich studied the man lying prone at his feet. He supposed he should have felt sorry for him. Mueller had his reasons for his treasonous acts, just as Hans had had his reasons for his loyalty, but it was that loyalty that wouldn't allow him to sympathize with the traitor.

"Why shouldn't I involve your family?" he asked. "They are all you have left."

Picking up the knife, Dietrich turned to walk away, but Mueller quickly jumped up to stop him. "Who are you to judge me?" he sneered. Dietrich attempted to pass without further comment, but Mueller would not allow him. "I know your type," he said accusatorily. "You can find fault with everyone but yourself."

Dietrich looked into Mueller's eyes and found the same belligerence he had once seen in Martin's. "You don't know me," he answered in his own defense.

"What are you doing here?" Mueller chided Hans, refusing to back down. "You certainly don't care about rescuing me, but you need to play the brave hero and for that reason you will put your life - my son's life - and the lives of all these men in jeopardy. Just so you can prove your worth."

Angered beyond words, Dietrich slammed Mueller into the side of the barracks. "I suggest you keep your accusations to yourself," he whispered menacingly, their faces mere inches from each other. "And stay out of my way."

He wanted to shake Mueller, as if by doing so, he could force the man to admit his error in judgement. But a part of Dietrich wondered if Mueller, was, indeed, wrong. Tired and frustrated, he shoved Mueller again for good measure, then stalked away, leaving the man standing breathless in the cold night air.

Ernst Mueller had made a pretense at resistance, but he made no effort to retaliate. If he had not won the battle of strength, he knew he had won the battle of words. "That's it, isn't it?" Filled with self-satisfaction, Mueller called after Dietrich, "Who's the hypocrite here, you or me?"

Mueller's words replayed endlessly in Dietrich's mind. Self-doubt crept between his thoughts, twisting his confidence and turning his conviction inside out. Was all of this simply an exercise to massage his ego? Had he completely lost his objectivity because he needed to prove himself? Had he accepted this mission out of duty or flattery? Standing at the door to the barracks, he leaned with his back against the wall and slumped down on his haunches. Were the events of the evening some sort of scheme on Mueller's part? If he started second-guessing himself now, tomorrow would be lost.

It suddenly occurred to Dietrich that his defeat might be what Mueller wanted after all. Staring out into the darkness, he looked up as the door slowly opened, emitting a thin shaft of light, profiling Willie's body against the light.

The corporal stepped outside, and quietly shut the door behind him. "Sergeant Shrier says it's going to rain tomorrow," the young man said without looking down at where Hans remained by the side of the door. "His arthritis is acting up again." The corporal chuckled under his breath, but continued his watch into the black night.

Dietrich's head hung wearily between his arms that were limply stretched out across his knees. This might be the last conversation he would ever have with Willie Rundstedt, and he felt completely unworthy of the young man's friendship.

The sound of a match being struck, accompanied by the odor of sulfur and tobacco finally aroused Hans' curiosity. "I thought you didn't smoke," he said, catching a glimpse of the flame extinguishing itself in the night air.

Willie laughed again. "I don't," he answered, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. He choked from the smoke as it infiltrated his lungs, and Dietrich rose to come to his aid.

Hans took the cigarette from Willie and waited for the coughing to subside. "These things are _not_ good for you." He glanced at the Russian cigarette, then threw it down, crushing it under his foot. "Why now?"

Looking at Hans with red, irritated eyes, Willie shrugged. "I thought it would not matter," he said, matter-of-factly and coughed again.

Dietrich stiffened. Apparently Corporal Rundstedt also had doubts about the outcome of tomorrow's rescue. Taking Willie by his arms, he brusquely turned the unsuspecting corporal around to

face him. "You _will_ survive tomorrow." He held the young man's gaze with the intensity of conscientious fervor. "You will survive simply because you must."

It was as if Willie's life depended on the strength of Dietrich's will alone, and for that reason he refused to weaken. He would not fall victim to Ernst Mueller's manipulation and neither would anyone else.

"I will not accept any less from you, and you cannot accept any less from yourself." Hauptmann Dietrich expected obedience from Willie and, at the same time, demanded conviction from himself.

The urgency behind Dietrich's words took Willie by surprise, but the underlying passion erased any misgivings the corporal might have entertained. Any demons the two shared had suddenly been dispelled, and at that moment, Willie would have followed Hans to the farthest star in the universe.

At last, he nodded his head slightly affirming his compliance, confidently answering, "Yes, sir."

Confident that Willie understood, Dietrich released him. "Good," he said, as he closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. Now they had only but to remain steadfast in their dedication.

Dietrich felt the corporal brush past him as he headed back to the door. "Willie," he called quietly, "one moment, please."

With his hand on the door, Willie stopped and turned back towards Hans. Even without looking at the captain's face, he could tell the man was exhausted. His shoulders sloped with the rest of his body; his head was like a heavy weight that he found impossible to hold erect.

"You need to get some rest, sir," Willie needlessly pointed out.

Dietrich answered with a single nod of his head. "But first, I need to ask a favor from you."

All heads turned as Dietrich and Willie entered the building, then, just as quickly, the men returned to their own affairs, their curiosity was satisfied. Hans quickly scanned the room. Most of the men seemed to be making preparations to leave; some of the more skeptical ones went about their nightly routines, unconcerned with what tomorrow would bring. Whether or not the prisoners believed him was now irrelevant. They were leaving tomorrow in any case. Ernst Mueller was leaving tomorrow, no matter what he believed.

Removing his tunic, Dietrich folded it over the end of his bed. As he unlaced his boots, he gradually became aware of someone watching him.

"What happened to you?" Martin asked, as he approached Dietrich from behind. He surveyed the caked mud that covered the captain's pants from his knees to his feet.

Making a feeble attempt to brush off the damp dirt, Dietrich decided it wasn't worth the effort. Tomorrow he would be leaving the dirt, the damp, and the cold behind. Tomorrow he would be going home.

"I fell," Hans lied, and immediately wished he hadn't. He had never lied to Martin before and now that he had the young man was keenly aware of the falsehood. The bewilderment and hurt on Martin's face called for an immediate apology.

"I'm sorry." Dietrich shook his head at his own ignorance. Hesitating, he looked at the floor, and then at Martin, who was seated on his own cot. "I had a 'misunderstanding' with your father on my way to the latrine," he said, trying to couch his explanation in the most gentle manner possible, but no amount of kindness was going to ease the young man's anxiety.

"What did he say?" Martin still expected that his father would change his mind.

Dietrich rubbed his forehead as he attempted to edit out the negative aspects of their conversation. "He's worried about you," he answered at last. That was, at least, part of the truth. "Of course he knows about tomorrow's rescue, and-" Dietrich had to do some quick rewording. "He thinks it would be wise if you and I would leave and call off the mission."

Martin stared blindly ahead, the last flicker of hope for a reconciliation had flared and died. No matter how hard he tried, he could no longer deny what he knew to be the truth. His father was afraid to leave, afraid to accept his punishment, and, more than anything else, he was afraid to face his family.

"He is a coward," Martin stated, unknowingly echoing Dietrich's accusation.

As much as he wanted to agree with the boy, Hans attempted to soften the blow. "He's a survivor, Martin," he observed, "much the same as you are."

Martin's face flushed, and when he turned to Dietrich. "Don't compare me with him," he reproached the captain bitterly.

Dietrich shook his head. "I'm not comparing you," he replied gently, "because there is no comparison. You are braver, stronger, and smarter than your father. Beneath that teenage bravado is a compassionate young man who has yet to realize his potential." He managed a smile of encouragement. "You've been dealt a difficult hand, Martin, but you have the ability to rise above your disappointments. You only have to remain true to yourself."

Angrily wiping away the errant tear, Martin reached for some sort of justification. "This will all be over tomorrow; then I won't have to deal with him anymore."

Dietrich understood the boy's need to put some distance between himself and this tragic episode of his life, but he also felt Martin needed to be reminded of reality. "Tomorrow will only be a period at the end of a sentence," he said, shaking his head. "There is still much more for you to write."

Martin seemed to understand Dietrich's intent, and if he wasn't placated, at least he appeared to accept the challenge of his uncertain future. Dietrich spent the last few hours of the evening discussing strategy with Major Brückner and answering questions from the assembled prisoners. No one was more thankful than he was when the lights were finally turned off. Precious sleep came quickly, but lasted only a short time.

It all happened so quickly that Dietrich barely had time to recognize his own fear. In the glare from the ceiling fixture, he could make out four armed guards, twice the number from the previous night, but this time they had not come for Major Brückner.

Methodically pulling the blankets off of each prisoner, the guards went through the barracks, one-by-one ordering the men out of bed. Shivering in the cold, the POWs lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, groggily whispering their indignation while casting suspicious glances in Dietrich's direction.

Only when one of the guards pulled Dietrich out of his bunk did he realize there was a fifth member of the investigative team. Suppressing another fit of coughing, his eyes still adjusting to the sudden light, Dietrich squinted directly into the face of Jaroslaw Znosko. The locked gazes only for a moment, but it was long enough for Dietrich to know it was he they were looking for.

The Captain thought his heart would stop as he watched one of the guards force an unsuspecting Martin out of his cot. The young man looked around in bewilderment as he stumbled into line next to Major Brückner. Martin's bewilderment soon turned to horror when he realized what was happening.

To prolong the drama, Znosko walked around the entire circle of prisoners, stopping here and there to study their faces or ask one of the guards for an opinion.

His heart beating in his throat, Hans watched as Znosko slowly approached. He thought he saw a hint of a smile on the Pole's lips when he finally came to stand in front him. Without a word Znosko snapped his fingers, which brought one of the guards to his side.

"Is this him?" he asked the guard.

"_Da_," the soldier answered, nodding his head.

When Dietrich looked at his accuser, he recognized the guard from their encounter earlier that morning. The charade was over. One accidental meeting had sealed his fate. In retrospect he had known he would be found out, but he had hoped for more time. A few weeks ago time was all he had, and now he could not stop the minutes from slipping away.

"Get dressed." Znosko threw Dietrich's clothes at him, and the captain wordlessly complied.

Hans reached for his boots, but the guard beat him to them. With one swift pass of his knife, the Russian cut the laces - not to prevent a suicide, but simply to make the proud German shuffle his feet when he walked. Slowly, he defiantly raised his head to make eye contact with the Russian. Slipping the boots on, he stood up, determined to walk in the loose fitting shoes just to spite his captors. If this evening

turned into a battle of wills, Dietrich wanted to be sure the Russians knew they would have a fight on their hands.

Major Brückner made an attempt to intercede on Dietrich's behalf, even though they both knew it was a futile gesture. "One moment. Where are you taking him?" he demanded.

Znosko turned on the major. "Get dressed," he ordered, "you're coming, too."

Martin watched in terror as the two men were lead away. His mind raced for an explanation. How could things have gone so wrong? Had the Russians found out about the escape plan? If so, why had they not taken him, too? The camp was full of hundreds of potential culprits, but he could only think of one person who would have betrayed them: his father.

Dietrich thought he felt snow falling as he and Brückner were silently marched across the compound to the administrative building in the middle of the camp. He caught a glimpse of Willie's unfinished porch rail. Soon it wouldn't matter if it were ever finished - nothing would matter except getting the men to the ship. He fleetingly wondered if he and Brückner would be alive to see it.

The two men were herded down a narrow, poorly lit set of stairs that led to the basement of the building. Walking single file behind Brückner, Dietrich made a quick appraisal of his new surroundings. From what he could see in the dark, the cellar had been built in a hurry. The concrete walls were already beginning to crumble from the moisture in the ground, and there was a damp odor in the air. Shallow puddles of water were haphazardly scattered on the dirt floor. With some effort, Dietrich managed to wade through the mud, despite his ill-fitting boots.

Finally, with unnecessary force, Brückner and Dietrich were shoved into a small room at the end of the corridor. A bare light bulb hung over a table in the center of the cubicle, and several chairs were randomly placed about the room. Compared to the well-maintained rooms on the floor above, this was a comparative dungeon.

When the door closed behind them, Dietrich immediately began to look for a way out.

"Save yourself the trouble," Brückner suggested as he pulled up a chair and seated himself at the table. "There is no way out of here, and even if there were, where would you go?"

Dietrich conceded Brückner's point, but he felt more useful doing something rather than just waiting for the inevitable. "You've been here before, then?"

The major shrugged. "A few times," he answered flatly. "The Russians enjoy these late night interrogations."

"How much do you think they know?" Dietrich asked, trying to get a feel for what was to come.

Shaking his head, Brückner replied, "Nothing. Everything. It depends on if someone actually betrayed us or they just suspect you're a prisoner they haven't accounted for." The major paused. "Either way, this isn't good."

Dietrich nodded. Brückner only confirmed what he already knew.

The furor over the latest Russian audacity quickly died down when the electricity was turned off and the men were forced to retreat to the relative warmth of their bunk beds. Desperate for an answer, Martin continually replayed the scene in his mind and kept coming to the same conclusion. No matter the consequences, he was more determined than ever to talk with his father, to confront him with his suspicions and dare him to deny them.

Quietly he dressed in the dark, then slipped out the front door of the barracks. It was pitch-black outside. There was no moon, no stars, and the only movement he could detect was the soft fall of snowflakes. Martin moved stealthily across the compound. He was good at sifting through shadows - a talent he had acquired in the bombed out buildings in Meinz, and then perfected in Berlin. He'd had no trouble evading the efficient Allied police, and he was certain he would have no problem with the inept Russian guards.

Martin had taken the opportunity to do a little reconnaissance of his own earlier in the day while Dietrich slept. He knew the exact building where his father was located, and was almost certain of the position of his bed. All that remained was for him to get in the barracks without disturbing anyone.

The door opened easily, allowing Martin quiet access to the building. Safely inside, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the complete darkness of the barracks' interior. Counting four sets of bunk beds from his right, he focused on the middle bunk of the fourth unit. Quietly, like an assassin, he crept up on the bed to be sure the occupant was, indeed, his father.

Martin's head swam with all the emotions that swept over him. Hate, joy, gratitude, and disappointment were somehow bound up in a love he could not deny. Taking a deep breath, he slipped his hand over his father's mouth and did his best to neutralize the violent reaction he expected.

Ernst Mueller's eyes flew open and he tried to cry out but someone's hand was covering his mouth. His attempt to fight off his attacker lasted only a moment before he heard a familiar voice whisper in his ear. "Quiet, Papa! It's me, Martin."

147


	17. Chapter 17

_**Chapter 17**_

Lying completely still, the elder Mueller waited for the next order from his son. It would do neither of them any good to draw attention to themselves, especially since Ernst suspected Martin had not come to him for any sort of reconciliation.

Martin and Ernst both glanced about the room when someone in the cluster of beds behind the boy stirred, muttered an obscenity and something about keeping quiet. Making eye contact with his father, Martin motioned to the door with a jerk of his head. "Get dressed, and meet me outside." He waited for a sign of agreement from his father.

With Martin's hand still covering his mouth, Ernst Mueller nodded his assent. This was one confrontation he could not put off any longer, and the one he dreaded the most. Quietly pulling on his pants and boots, Mueller looked around the barracks to be sure they had been undetected, then stepped out into the night to meet his son.

Standing in the shadows, Martin watched his father. He was nothing like the boy remembered him to be. The sparkle of humor in his eye was gone, replaced by a dull cynicism. His proud carriage was weighted down by years of neglect and abuse. And the smile Martin had known as a boy was now a thin line of anger.

The part of Martin that remained a child could still recall the loving, gentle father of his dreams. But the hardened young man he had become could only see the pathetic shadow of what had been standing before him.

"Do you know what you've done?" he asked accusatorily.

Momentarily startled, Ernst Mueller took a step backwards as Martin stepped out of the shadows. It was the first time in years he had seen his son. He was tall and handsome, smoldering with the fire and passion of youth, and Ernst thought he could detect a part of himself in Martin that had long since passed away.

"Is that any way to greet your father?" he asked, maintaining a physical as well as an emotional distance.

"What would you know about being a father?" Martin rebuked.

"I know enough to be certain that you shouldn't be here."

"Neither should you," Martin countered.

Ernst thoughtfully watched his son, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Martin had a sharp mind and a sharp tongue to match. But he would not be drawn into a debate of ethics with his son.

"I want you to leave this place," he ordered as he turned to go back inside. "Tonight, if possible."

Martin would not be dismissed so lightly. "Why?" he asked. "So I won't be witness to the havoc you've created?"

Mueller turned back to his son. "What are you talking about?" he asked impatiently.

"They came and took Major Brückner and Hauptmann Dietrich-"

"_Hauptmann _Dietrich?" Momentarily confused, it didn't take long for Mueller to associate the name with a face. "Ah, your friend, Hans," he scoffed. "I should've guessed."

"They came for him an hour ago," Martin explained, obviously distressed and evidently blaming his father.

"And you think that I betrayed him," Ernst stated coolly. "You do have a very low opinion of me."

Martin didn't know if his father was being sarcastic or brutally honest. Either way, the elder Mueller seemed wounded by his accusation. However, Martin didn't have time or inclination to belabor the point.

"I think that you informed on him to stop the rescue attempt." Martin shook with rage. "That by stopping him, you think you will stop the rest of us."

"Us?" Ernst exploded in disbelief. "You are not one of 'us.'" Mueller grabbed his son by his upper arms. "I don't know why he brought you here-"

Martin pulled himself free from his father's grip. "He didn't bring me," the teen protested angrily. "I came here on my own - to look for you." His lower lip started to tremble and he bowed his head, unsuccessfully attempting to blink away the tears. Taking a deep breath, he looked at his father again, saying, "But you didn't want me."

By giving voice to his deepest hurt, Martin had somehow released a floodgate of emotions that he could neither understand nor control. Instead he let the myriad feelings wash over him, as he stood before his father, sobbing like a child, starving for a word of comfort or understanding.

Unable to ignore his heart any longer, Ernst gathered the boy into his arms, pleasantly surprised that Martin offered no resistance. "You have to understand," he murmured through his own tears, "I only did what I thought was best."

Tenderly stroking his son's head, he whispered, "I don't want you to be hurt. I love you, Martin - and for that reason you have to leave here . . . without me."

Choking back his tears, Martin's eyes flew open and he pushed his father away. "This is your chance to be free, and you won't take it. Why?"

Mueller reached out for his son, but Martin withdrew from his touch. "There are many things you don't understand. I can't simply go home and pick up the pieces. I can't be what you want me to be."

"So, now two men may die, as well as hundreds more tomorrow, simply because you can't admit your treachery." The accusation flowed quickly out of Martin, as if he were voicing an unconscious belief. His grief had turned to wrath, and instead of retreating, he steadfastly stood his ground.

Momentarily taken aback by the boy's hostility, Mueller immediately raised his defenses against his son's indictment. "I didn't betray you or your friend," he replied, adamantly maintaining his innocence.

"I don't believe you!" Martin spat back at his father.

"Why would I tell anyone about you and Herr Hauptmann?" Mueller asked, attempting to reason with the boy. "Revealing your identities to anyone would only cause you harm. I don't want you to be hurt. I couldn't bear it."

Martin understood the logic behind his father's explanation, but the animosity he felt ran too deep for him to listen to reason. He stared at the ground beneath his feet. Hurt was something he had lived with for years. The physical signs had faded, and the emotional scars had become so familiar he didn't even notice them any longer. His father's rejection was the last blow he would tolerate. Finally, laughing under his breath, he coldly looked at the man as his sardonic smile faded.

"You're a little too late, then," he said, turning and walking away from the man he no longer recognized. For all intents and purposes his father was dead.

The sentence had come to a full stop, and Martin had turned the page.

Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into hours. Dietrich wasn't able to tell how many hours, exactly, but he guessed two, maybe three, since he and Brückner had been deposited in the little interrogation room. The endless waiting was another trick perfected by the SS and apparently adopted by the Russians. The longer a prisoner waited, the longer they had to invent their own horrific scenarios. Before long, fear was the only emotion. It ruled every thought process until all the subject knew was terror. Paralyzed by the unknown, the strongest of men would eventually fall prey to their own hysteria.

Conversation between Major Brückner and Dietrich ended some time ago, each man withdrawing into his own contemplation. The room grew colder as the night drew its last few breaths. Wrapping his arms around himself for warmth, Dietrich tried to recall the desert. He could remember the soft warm

breeze that skipped across the dunes early in the morning - the hot sand that he could feel even through the soles of his leather boots. He would never forget the blinding sun that burned his skin, nor the suffocating heat that crushed his lungs.

Hans could remember everything, but they were all callous memories that brought more disturbance than comfort. Sporadic episodes of chills grew more regular until Dietrich could not tell if he was shaking from the cold or the fever. The dampness in the air hung heavier in the room as the approaching storm set in, and Dietrich's breathing became more labored as his body tried to compensate for the depleted oxygen supply. The frequent cough was now wet and coarse as he tried to eliminate the fluid collecting in his lungs.

It would be dawn soon and, if all went as planned, the liberation would begin within a matter of hours. For the first time in the past few days Hans allowed himself to think about Ilsa and Gretchen. They were the true victims of all these intended heroics. Ilsa was strong and resilient; Hans had no doubt she could raise Gretchen on her own. But she didn't need to. Dietrich no longer cared what his motives had been in accepting this mission; he only knew he had done his wife and child a great injustice. He prayed that Ilsa would forgive him.

Voices filtered in from the hallway. Dietrich and Brückner exchanged quick glances in anticipation of their interview. Despite his best efforts to remain calm, Hans could feel his heart beating in his throat.

"Let me handle this," Brückner quickly whispered from where he sat at the head of the table. "Tell them your name, rank, and whatever else you've concocted for identity, but let me answer all other questions."

Against his better judgement, Dietrich nodded his agreement. There was little time to argue.

"Good morning, gentlemen."

Znosko was preceded by a different guard than the one from the previous night. Dietrich chalked it up to a change of guards, rather than a change of heart. There was no doubt as to why Brückner and Dietrich were being held for questioning. The only remaining variable was how long it would take before they would admit their duplicity.

Another guard followed the interpreter, carrying a tray containing two cups of hot coffee. "Put it there," the Pole ordered, indicating the corner of the table between Dietrich and Brückner.

Doing as he was told, the guard set the tray down, then backed away from Znosko and the two prisoners.

"I hope you were able to get some sleep." Znosko's empty sarcasm was as bitter as the coffee. He smiled abjectly at the two haggard faces staring back at him.

Dietrich took another mouthful of coffee and swallowed hard. It tasted even worse than it smelled, but it was hot and took the chill out of his bones. He held the cup inches from his face to allow the steam to warm his skin.

Znosko walked to the only window in the room. Small and rectangular, it was strategically placed on the wall to admit light from the outside, but too high to invite an escape attempt. "It will be morning soon," he said ominously, as if the rising sun was something to be feared. "Commandant Mirinov will join us then." He paused, then turned towards his two prisoners. "That is, unless you decide to cooperate. There is no need to stretch this out."

"Cooperate?" Brückner asked incredulously. "We don't even know why we are here."

Znosko slammed his hand on the table and leaned towards the major. "You know exactly why you're here."

Brückner involuntarily jumped at Znosko's aggression, but quickly regained his composure. "When did you suddenly become the camp interrogation expert?" he asked, obviously challenging the Pole's authority.

"Since I obtained these from a prisoner yesterday." Znosko reached inside his jacket pocket and produced Hans' lighter and the pack of cigarettes. "He said he stole them from an officer." He laid the items on the table, setting them in a straight line. "I would not have been suspicious, except for these." Picking up the cigarettes, he held the pack out for Brückner's inspection. "They're American."

Dietrich thought his heart had momentarily stopped beating; he only hoped his inner panic was not reflected in his face. _The cigarettes! _he thought, _Troy's cigarettes. _There was no traitor in the ranks; he

could not even blame this on Ernst Mueller. The cigarettes were the one minor detail he had overlooked. Now that small mistake might cost both he and Brückner their lives.

Znosko thought he detected a subtle change in the new prisoner's demeanor, but he continued, delighting in his own role in the riddle. "Then Sargeant Zhymnov told me of a mysterious new prisoner in the camp." He shook his head and gave Dietrich a derisive grin. "All we had to do was look for you."

No matter what happened now, Dietrich could not let down his guard. If he were going to die for his mistake, then at least he would go down fighting. He blankly stared at Znosko. "They're not mine," he said casually, attempting to disguise his own apprehension.

"You're lying," Znosko said, mimicking Dietrich's casualness. "But it doesn't matter. I only want to know who you are and what you're doing here."

"My name is Hans Bauer," Dietrich answered, then added sardonically, "I was a corporal in the Wehrmacht and now I am a prisoner here." He immediately regretted his sarcasm when he saw Znosko's eyes grow wide in anger.

Dietrich braced himself as a nod of the Pole's head brought a staggering strike to the back of his head. Despite his best efforts to hold himself erect, the blow sent him toppling from the chair. Before he could clear his head, someone had picked him up and put him back on the seat.

"Now. . ." Znosko walked around the table and leaned against it for support. "Perhaps we can discuss this like two gentlemen."

Dietrich wanted to point out that they were one gentleman short for the intended conversation, but decided against it when he felt the guard at his back. "My name is Corporal Hans Bauer-"

"He's telling the truth," Major Brückner interjected. "He was brought here with the last group of prisoners six months ago, surely you remember." Smiling nervously, he looked at Hans then at Znosko. "He likes to keep a low profile-"

"Quiet, Major!" Znosko shouted at the man. "Or you may be implicating yourself in this matter." Glaring at Hans, he continued his rant. "Frankly, I don't give a shit what your name is. I want to know who sent you, why you are here, and what you hope to accomplish. So let's give this another try, shall we?"

Six months ago, the major said. Dietrich's mind raced to remember what he had learned about the last days of the war on the Eastern front. "I was with the Seventh Panzer division in Warsaw. We surrendered in April and I arrived here in late May." Dietrich decided to take a penitent approach. "I don't know why you don't believe me," he stated plaintively.

This time the blow was totally unexpected. One strike of the dull, blunt object came from Dietrich's left, snapping his neck, but failing to remove him from his seat. He shook his head again, but his mind didn't clear as quickly as before.

"Who sent you?" Znosko hammered at him. "Why are you here? What is your purpose for being here?"

"My name is Hans-" His mind in a fog, Dietrich had to reach for his pseudonym. "Hans Bauer. I was taken prisoner in Warsaw-"

A firm hand under his chin sharply lifted Dietrich's head so that he stared directly into the cold eyes of Jaroslaw Znosko.

"It will do you no good to resist," the Pole hissed. "If I don't get the information from you, Commandant Mironov will - and I assure you he won't waste any time getting it."

"I don't know what you mean," Dietrich stated as best he could with his bottom jaw immobilized. "I don't have any information. I am just a corporal, no one tells me anything."

Znosko gave Dietrich's jaw a merciless squeeze before he abruptly released him. He stopped the guard who was prepared to strike again. "No, don't," he ordered his henchman. "We'll leave them for the colonel. He knows how to extract information."

Dietrich thought he detected a sense of disappointment in Znosko's voice. He had probably convinced Colonel Miranov that he could break the two men, and had fallen short of his promise. There was nothing left to do but send in the experts.

With another nod of Znosko's head, the coffee tray was removed; he followed the two guards to the door, but stopped before leaving.

"You will probably live to regret this," he said, inauspiciously addressing Dietrich's back. When he received no response, he slammed the door behind him as he left.

Major Brückner was immediately at Dietrich's side as soon as he heard the bolt slide shut on the other side of the door. "Are you hurt?"

Shaking his head, Hans gingerly felt the lump forming on the left side of his skull. "I'm fine - for now," he answered, "but we have to find a way out of here, because if we don't, neither one of us is going to be fine much longer."

"There is no way out of here," Brückner said glumly as he watched Dietrich push a chair over to the window. "Besides, where would we go if we did get out?"

Climbing onto the chair, Dietrich pulled at the window, but it didn't budge. Out of frustration, he gave the handle one last tug before he collapsed in the chair. The minimal exertion left his gasping for air, which in turn caused him to start coughing again.

"We are going to die here," the major stated with little emotion, as if he had finally accepted his own mortality.

Hans could not argue with him. The odds of their surviving the interrogation, let alone the rescue, were slim at best. Even with the Rat Patrol at the gates, he guessed he and Brückner would be dead before the liberation of the camp was finished. Closing his eyes, he began to worry about his wife and child, his family, and about Martin. He thought about everything that had mattered in his life, and how it all seemed so irrelevant. All of the victories passed by as quickly as the losses; it mattered little if he were a soldier or citizen, German or American, Christian or Jew. Death was the great equalizer.

He had never been afraid to die, because he had never had time to think about it before. Placed in a crisis situation, his instinct for survival would dictate life or death, and death had never been an option. Now his impending demise seemed to be the only constant and Dietrich was scared. No matter what happened - if he confessed everything or maintained his silence, he was a dead man. His only responsibility now was to keep Martin, Brückner, and the rest of the men alive until Troy and his men arrived.

"There is nothing you can do to help them." Half-dressed, Willie jumped up fast enough to catch Martin by the arm before he could leave the barracks. The early-morning drone of activity momentarily stopped as everyone turned to watch the two young men.

Willie's intensity prevented Martin from struggling against his grip. In truth, he was glad Willie grabbed him, for he had no real plan of action, just the conviction that he had to do something to help Hauptmann Dietrich and the major.

"There has to be something we can do," he pleaded.

Shaking his head, Willie maintained his grip on Martin's arm. "The moment you open your mouth, you will condemn every man in this camp. We have to remain here; we have to see this through to the end."

"You won't be seeing your friend again," Sergeant Shrier gruffly broke the silence. "You may as well accept it." He addressed his next comments to the gathering of men. "If those bastards even suspect that something is going on, they're going to double the guard today and this whole 'liberation' is going to end up a massacre."

Murmurs of agreement surged through the barracks accompanied by nodding heads and looks of disgust. In wake of imminent dissension, Martin decided Willie was right - the only way they could successfully complete the rescue was to remain together and remain focused.

"No, you're wrong." Released from Willie's grasp, Martin followed the sergeant across the room. "We still have the Americans on our side."

"The Americans?" Shrier snorted cynically. "What makes you think they're going to risk their lives for us?"

Martin had no first-hand knowledge of the Rat Patrol's fidelity, but Herr Dietrich had placed his faith in them, and that was endorsement enough for him.

"They gave their word," Martin declared with finality. "They won't fail us."

Shrier turned to appraise the boy. He had seen it all before - the naivete, the youthful ignorance, the righteous self-assurance. He almost felt sorry for Martin. "Believe what you want to believe, boy," the sergeant answered wearily, "because once your friend tells them what they want to know, God and all of his angels won't be able to get us out of here."

Martin hesitated. The possibility that the captain might divulge the escape plan had never occurred to him until now. Unwilling to even consider the possibility, he immediately dismissed the idea.

"He won't betray us," he angrily declared, as much to convince himself as anyone else. And as the crowd of men dissipated, Martin added more quietly, "He won't."

Evidence of the camp slowly coming to life resounded on the wooden floors above their heads. The shuffling of feet accompanied by the sound of opening and closing doors attested to the start of another day. By all accounts, it was a perfectly normal beginning to another perfectly normal day. Even the muted sunlight through the dirty window confirmed that the day had begun as it should, and only the German POWs knew it would end as no other. At least, that's what Dietrich continued to hope.

Rubbing his tired eyes with his dirty hands only made his eyes burn with more intensity, until he was forced to wipe the stinging tears on the sleeve of his tunic. He watched Major Brückner, his head resting on his arms folded in front of him on the table. For the past few hours, the major would occasionally catch himself snoring, reposition his head and then fall back to sleep.

He envied the major's calm acceptance of the inevitable; his own stubbornness had never allowed him that particular luxury. A "stubborn Kraut." Hans had lost count of the times Sergeant Troy had used that axiom, and he laughed in spite of himself. Two and a half years ago, he and Sergeant Troy's men had played a prolonged game of cat-and-mouse over the sand dunes of North Africa, each side trying to exterminate the other. Now, not only did he hope the Rat Patrol would complete the mission unharmed, but they were his only chance of survival. "Ironic" could not begin to describe the way the game had played out.

The sound of heavy boots marching in the hall was closely followed by the squeak of metal against metal as the bolt on the outer door was moved aside.

"We're having company," Dietrich said, anxiously rousing the major.

Brückner groggily raised his head, but quickly shook the sleep from his mind when he saw the urgency etched in Dietrich's face. There was no time to discuss strategy; besides, little had changed in the past few hours. They had no choice but to stick to their original story . . . and pray that neither one would falter.

The heavy door swung open and a large guard stepped inside, shouldered his rifle, and came to attention. Colonel Miranov swept into the room, closely followed by another guard who bolted the door behind them. He stepped to the other side of the door and stood at attention also.

Miranov circled the table until he stood across the room from the two prisoners. He tossed his hat on the table with an aggravated gesture that belied his calm exterior. It was clear he had expected the matter to be already settled. The absence of Znosko and his coffee indicated that the colonel did not intend to waste much time on the two men.

The camp commandant proceeded to quickly remove each black leather glove, smacking them on the table to underscore his annoyance. He did not remove his gray overcoat.

Dietrich took the few tense moments of silence to evaluate the Russian officer. He guessed Miranov to be three or four inches shorter than he was, but what the commandant lacked in height, he made up for in girth. The man's broad shoulders were only exceeded by his broader waistline; the last three buttons of his coat were unfastened, suggesting that he had put on some weight since his last uniform fitting. His long face appeared even longer since his neck was hidden beneath his double chin. The gray at his temples accentuated his steel-gray eyes, which were even colder than the atmosphere in the interrogation room. Pursing his thin lips, Miranov looked at Major Brückner. "You have deceived me," he said flatly in English, not bothering to ask if Dietrich spoke the language.

Brückner didn't answer at first, then said simply, "I don't know what you're talking about." He watched Miranov paced the long side of the room.

"Then let me explain." The Russian spoke as if he were addressing a child. "First, you ask for a special meeting with your officers. And because I trusted you, I gave you permission. A few hours later, I then hear about a 'new' prisoner in camp." He looked at Dietrich. "A new prisoner that I know nothing about, and who happens to lose his lighter and cigarettes to one of your pickpockets."

Miranov took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Leaning across the table, he glared at Major Brückner. "And the cigarettes just happen to be American. What am I to think, major? That this is all just a coincidence?"

Brückner returned the colonel's stare, sure that Miranov was trying to read his mind. "Corporal Bauer has been here since-"

"Enough!" the colonel angrily exploded. "I've heard the lies. I want to know the _truth_! Who is this man and what are you two planning?"

Hans could tell the major was doing his best to hold his own against the Russian colonel, but it was obvious he was beginning to waver under the strain. "He's telling the truth, sir," Dietrich spoke up, attempting to divert the colonel's ire away from Brückner.

Miranov turned sharply, yelling at Dietrich, "Quiet! I am _not _addressing you!"

It wasn't as if Dietrich had not expected the anger, but the degree of the colonel's rage made Hans draw back. He swallowed hard, maintaining eye contact with Miranov. "I thought you wanted the truth," he defiantly confronted the colonel.

Hans never saw the signal from the commandant, but the sharp pain at the base of his neck was the unmistakable sting of a rifle butt being jammed into his spine. Thankfully, the pain lasted only a few seconds, and loss of consciousness came quickly.

When Dietrich came to, both he and Brückner were bound to their chairs; their hands tied behind their backs and each foot tied to a front leg of the chair. By all indications, the tide of this interrogation had turned for the worse.

"He's awake, comrade, alert the colonel."

Dietrich heard the Russian conversation going on behind him, but the ringing in his ears made it difficult for him to tell who was speaking. Slowly opening his eyes, he tried to focus on the table, the wall, anything in his direct line of vision, but his brain refused to process the signals. His world had been reduced to a hodge-podge of multi-colored blurs and disassociated voices.

The door opened and closed behind them. "Hans!"

The major's whispered voice came from Dietrich's right. He blinked, squinted, then blinked again until Brückner's face came into fuzzy focus.

"Can you hear me?"

Dietrich thought he nodded his head. As he did so, one of the guards stepped between them and issued an order to remain silent. It was just as well, he thought. There wasn't much left to be said.

Again the door opened and closed. One man informed the other that the colonel would be coming soon. By now, Dietrich had lost all track of time. He could see the sun filtering through the lone window, but could not tell its position in the sky.

"What time is it?" he croaked in Russian. He didn't think it mattered if they knew he was conversant in the language; his knowledge of Russian would only be one less thing he'd have to keep secret from the commandant.

"Ten o'clock," the guard answered, recovering from the shock of hearing the question in his native language.

Dietrich quickly did the arithmetic. Four hours until Troy and his men arrived; four hours left to endure the interrogation; four more hours of life. Never before had such a mundane measurement of time been so precious.

Reeking of alcohol, Colonel Miranov entered the room with little fanfare and was immediately informed of the new prisoner's fluency in Russian.

"Good," the colonel replied, apparently unconcerned. "That will make things much easier." He stepped between Brückner and Dietrich, leaning against the table as he addressed the two men. "I am

not going to play games with either of you any longer," Miranov warned them. "Therefore, you can

relinquish your roles in this little farce. I know there is something happening - the whole camp stinks with it."

The table creaked as Miranov adjusted his weight, resting his left hip on the table. "So, why don't you save us all a lot of trouble and tell me what it is."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Brückner's denial resounded with insincerity. If Miranov knew they were lying, then he also knew neither he nor Hans would reveal any secrets. Feigning ignorance, no matter how disingenuous, was their last line of defense.

The throbbing in Dietrich's head was keeping pace with his rapidly beating heart as he watched the colonel rise slowly from his perch on the table. Barely controlling his anger, Miranov was breathing heavily as he passed between Hans and Major Brückner. He circled the major like a lioness stalking her prey, slowly, patiently, until Dietrich noticed a blur of motion accompanied by a muffled moan as Brückner doubled over as far as his bonds would permit.

Miranov gripped the top of Brückner's head, abruptly yanking it up and back until the major had no choice but to stare at the large Russian looming over him. "I told you I am finished playing games with you." He menacingly held Brückner's stare, while simultaneously applying pressure to the major's skull causing him to wince in pain. Just as abruptly Miranov threw Brückner's head forward.

Dietrich straightened in the chair. "Leave him be," he demanded with more authority than he felt. "I'm the one you want."

Miranov grinned victoriously. "Yes, I know." The new man had fallen directly into his trap. "How did you get in here undetected?"

"I scaled the fen-"

The lie was hardly out of his mouth when the commandant lashed out, landing a solid right to Dietrich's jaw. Hans gingerly tested the jawbone and was surprised to find it still moved.

"How did you get into the camp?" Miranov yelled.

"I scaled the fence." Another blow to Dietrich's head opened a cut at the corner of his right eye. Taking a breath meant to clear his mind, it instead caused his lungs to spasm, and he began to cough violently. Mucous collected in his mouth and he had no choice but to spit it out on the floor beside him.

Seeing that this line of questioning was not achieving the results he wanted, Miranov changed the subject. "Who sent you?"

"No one." This time the blow came from behind him. Something solid and unyielding made contact with the left side of Dietrich's head. He coughed again. The pain in his skull prohibited him from raising his chin off of his chest, and the phlegm dripped out of his open mouth and ran down the front of his shirt.

Miranov was becoming more and more frustrated. He had not expected such resistance. Perhaps, he thought, there was one way to get this man to talk. Slowly and deliberately he unholstered the gun hidden beneath his coat.

Dietrich raised his head a fraction. He could see movement - the colonel's arm reaching inside his overcoat, then withdrawing something small and black, but it was the distinct click of a magazine being loaded, that fully captured the captain's attention.

Hans followed the colonel's movement out of the corner of his eye until he was finally forced to move his whole head as Miranov approached Major Brückner.

Brückner's whole body recoiled at the touch of the Tokarev's barrel against his temple. Anticipating the inevitable, he closed his eyes and swallowed with difficulty. The cold metal pressed deeper against his skin.

"If you want your fellow countryman to live, you will tell me everything." Miranov's voice was so soft, so impassive it caused Dietrich to tremble.

"Hans, you must not." Brückner's voice was hoarse and unsteady; his whole body shaking. Covered in sweat, he was having trouble breathing.

Dietrich considered his options and found he had none. He did not doubt that Miranov would shoot the major if he refused to cooperate. Yet he could not trade the lives of 250 men for that of one. All of his training, everything he had learned as an officer, told him not to make the deal. It was the greatest

dilemma of command - choosing one life over another - but no matter how many times he had to make the decision, he was never prepared for it.

And this time it was deeply personal. Major Brückner was his friend, someone he trusted and respected - an innocent man caught in the crossfire of politics and espionage. A quagmire Dietrich had some part in creating.

Through the din echoing in his head, Dietrich heard the sound of a hammer being cocked. The mechanism sounded hard and brittle, like the sound of ice cracking beneath one's feet.

"What is your decision? The major's life or the truth?"

Dietrich could not allow the major to die. But he also could not betray the rest of the men. He would not. In a panic he grasped for a compromise that he knew was unattainable.

In a moment of unexpected calm, Major Brückner caught a glimpse of the turmoil consuming the captain. Summoning the last fragment of his dignity, Brückner lifted his head. "I am willing to die for my men," he stated with complete serenity. "You must be willing to live for them."

The major had made the decision for him, releasing him from his conscience. Dietrich, in turn, let go of his fear. He sadly smiled in gratitude and nodded a farewell to his friend. Then he narrowed his eyes to focus on Miranov. "You can go to hell." The words came out thick and indistinct, but there was no misunderstanding the sentiment behind them.

The sound of the gun firing made Hans jump as a shower of warm blood and human tissue rained against the right side of his face. Closing his eyes, he turned his head away from the spray, but he couldn't move far enough to avoid the melange as it splattered across the room.

The room took on a deathly silence as Major Brückner's lifeless body slumped in the chair, straining against the ropes that still held him in the seat. The odor of sulfur, hot metal, and blood mingled to create a nauseating mixture that smelled of death. Even the guards were forced to look away from the wreckage that had once been the major's head.

"Untie him," Dietrich ordered between clenched teeth, shaking with rage. When no one responded he grew angrier, his agitation bordering on hysteria. "Untie him, goddamn you!" he screamed again and again, until the dull impact of a heavy object brought the blessed darkness.

157


	18. Chapter 18

_**Chapter 18**_

Sam Troy shivered as he propped his arms on the frozen ground and brought his binoculars to his eyes. The temperature had barely dipped below 0º Celsius, but the cold wind blowing off the Baltic Sea, combined with the freshly fallen snow, made the weather absolutely frigid. He tried to ignore the cold, focusing instead on the two heavy artillery guns mounted on either side of the dock. Getting to the guns would be easy - taking out the sentries would be the tricky part.

The sound of snow crunching under approaching feet caught Troy's attention, but he did not look up as Moffitt crouched beside him. "Rather big for their age, don't you think?" the Englishman quipped as he looked at the guns in the distance.

"Yeah," Troy agreed as he continued to scan the dock, "luckily there's only two of them."

There didn't seem to be any noteworthy activity, and Troy pushed himself up from the ground, sitting back on his knees. "What time is it?" he asked as he brushed the snow from his jacket.

Moffitt glanced at his watch. "Close to quarter after twelve," he announced softly.

"Time to get going," Troy decided. "You and Tully take the one on the left; Hitch and I will get the other one. We'll meet back here in forty-five minutes." He watched as, with a single nod, Moffitt started down the small embankment towards Hitch and Tully, who were waiting with the cars. "Moffitt!" he called out under his breath.

Moffitt came to an abrupt stop halfway down the hill and turned back to Troy.

"If you get caught-"

"We won't," Moffitt assured him.

Troy nodded, "Right." Failure was not a consideration.

Tully had to pick up the pace a bit to keep up with Moffitt's long strides, but they both managed to remain inconspicuous as they approached the gun turret. The round, concrete structure rose fifteen to twenty feet into the air, completely enclosing the mechanical workings of the 76 cm machine gun and its operator, protecting both from the effects of the environment. Cleverly positioned in the middle of the tower, it could be swung in any direction to cover attacks from both the sea and land. The other gun was about fifty feet from where they stood, on the opposite side of the dock.

Moffitt furtively glanced in the direction of the other turret. He wasn't necessarily surprised that he saw no signs of Troy or Hitchcock. They had had a further distance to travel, skirting the outer boundary of the camp in order to access the opposite side of the jetty. Nonetheless, he could not suppress a tinge of worry as he and Tully approached the tower.

Using Moffitt for cover, Tully expertly picked the simple lock on the wooden door and slipped inside. A collection of shovels, rope, and gas cans were crowded into one corner of the tower infrastructure; a center support beam rose from the dirt floor to the wooden floor above. To Tully's left, a single set of narrow stairs allowed access to the gun through a hole on the floor above him.

Silently climbing the steps, Tully quickly peeked over the floor's edge to find a single soldier manning the gun. Descending the stairs, he took a look around to be sure he hadn't been seen, then stepped outside.

"One gun, one soldier," he casually informed Moffitt.

"Shall we?" Moffitt suggested. As he started to enter the turret, Tully put out a hand to stop him. "Wha-?" he asked, startled by the corporal's hesitancy.

"I can handle this one myself." Tully's mouth twisted into a crooked grin when he saw the puzzlement in his sergeant's face. Unbuttoning his coat, he reached into his back pocket and produced his prized slingshot. "All I need is one good shot," he grinned.

Moffitt's eyes sparkled in amusement. Tully never ceased to surprise him. "Are you sure?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Oh, yeah," Tully answered, confidently. Digging into his coat pocket, he found the perfect projectile - a large, vaguely oval-shaped stone.

The rock looked weighty and lethal. "You're sure it won't kill him?" Moffitt asked suspiciously.

Tully shook his head. "Nah. A human head is a lot harder than a coon's."

Moffitt could not help but laugh. "Right, then," he agreed. There was little else he could do - his specialty was mummified corpses, not dead racoons. "I'll keep watch out here. Holler if you need help."

Unable to suppress a grin, Tully nodded and disappeared inside. Quietly creeping up the first few steps, he paused to position the stone in the sling. Satisfied that he had the control he needed, he made his way up to the floor of the tower. Praying that the wooden floor wouldn't creak beneath his weight, he partly lifted himself through the opening and braced his back against the wall. He immediately positioned the slingshot, then gave a shrill whistle.

Startled, the Russian soldier turned just as Tully released the improvised missile. It hit the sentry squarely in the forehead, stunning him just enough to allow Tully to hoist himself through the opening in the floor and deliver a knock-out punch to the man's jaw. Quickly and efficiently, the corporal emptied the magazine, then jammed the firing mechanism.

"Sarge."

Moffitt heard Tully's exaggerated whisper and ducked inside the building. Looking up the stairs, he saw the guard crumbled on the steps. With one hand under the Russian's arm, Tully grasped at the edge of the floor with his other hand to prevent the guard's dead weight from dragging him and the unconscious man down the steps.

Moffitt motioned for Tully to release the soldier. The guard slid, rather ungracefully, down the few steps to the bottom where the sergeant picked him up and dragged him underneath the stairs. After tying the man's hands and feet with rope, he shoved a handkerchief into his mouth, gagging him. Placing the soldier in a seated position, he secured him around the midsection to the beam in the middle of the turret.

Satisfied that the Russian would be sufficiently restrained, he stepped over the man's legs to examine Tully's handiwork. The projectile had broken the skin slightly left of center in the man's forehead, and the surrounding tissue was already taking on a bluish tint. Tully, he thought, was better with his weapon that anyone expected.

"He'll be okay," Tully said, studying the small wound. "Just hope he stays out long enough for us to finish the job."

Smiling, Moffitt nodded in the direction of the single doorway. "Let's see how Troy and Hitch fared."

Together the two men exited the tower. Trying not to appear too hurried, they slowed their pace to an approximate stroll.

"How _do_ you do that?" Moffitt murmured, still stupefied by Tully's proficiency with such a primitive weapon.

The corporal shoved his hands in his pockets, and smiling as if he were privy to all of the most important secrets of the universe, he stared at blue sky above them. "Practice," he answered, grinning. "Lots of practice."

Moffitt smiled as he watched his friend. Tully was the most enigmatic person he had ever met. He was quiet and watchful. Yet behind the stoicism was a sharp mind and a toughness that belied his

genuinely kind heart. There was a kind of wild bravery about him, too, and if Moffitt ever had to choose someone to back him in a fight, it would be Tully.

Squinting at the bright sun, Moffitt inhaled the crisp, salt air and thought about the unconscious Russian gunman. Finally there was something about this mission that felt right.

Slipping behind the nearest utility building, the two jumped down from the man-made landing that acted as a ramp to the dock. Sliding a few feet down the small incline in the wet snow, they eventually ended up on their stomachs as they surveyed the area to be sure they had not been followed.

Satisfied that all was clear, Tully headed back towards the car, followed closely by Sergeant Moffitt.

Arriving back at the appointed rendezvous area, the tinge of worry Moffitt had felt earlier escalated two-fold. There was still no sign of Troy and Hitch.

Tully could almost read Moffitt's mind. "Don't worry. We're about fifteen minutes early. They'll be here."

"I didn't see them on the dock," Moffitt countered as he peered out into the snow-covered countryside.

"You weren't supposed to," Tully reminded him.

In a feeble attempt to relax, Moffitt uneasily slid down in the front seat. Tully had switched off the car's engine and as the minutes ticked by the interior rapidly became as cold as the weather outside. The brilliant sun produced a blinding glare off of the white snow and Tully stifled a laugh when Moffitt slipped on his sunglasses.

"What?" Moffitt asked in his best indignant voice.

Propping his elbow on the door, Tully shook his head. "Nothing," he answered as he rubbed his chin to keep from laughing out loud. "It's just that-"

"What?" Moffitt demanded.

"How many years were we in the desert?" Tully asked as he continued to survey the area for any sign of Troy and Hitch.

"Two, more-or-less," Moffitt answered, momentarily forgetting his anxiety over his missing comrades.

Tully looked at the English sergeant. "How come they never gave us sunglasses then?"

Moffitt laughed along with Tully. The irony was stupefying.

"I don't think we will ever understand the strange logic of the military mind," Moffitt laughed. Genuinely at ease, he crossed his arms and slid down a little further to rest his head on the back of the seat. Unfortunately, his respite only lasted for a brief time.

Having caught a glimpse of movement in the distance, Tully suddenly sat up straight behind the steering wheel and grabbed the binoculars. "There they are," he announced, relieved that his prediction had come true. He handed the field glasses to Moffitt and started the car.

The black Mercedes came into better focus, but Moffitt waited until he was sure it was Hitch driving the car. The auto was moving quickly, and it wasn't long before Jack saw Hitch with his familiar wire-framed glasses and Troy in the seat beside him. Resting the binoculars in his lap, Moffitt released a sigh of relief.

Hitch brought the car up alongside the other, facing in the opposite direction than Tully and Moffitt. "Miss us?" he asked jovially as he rolled down the window.

"Is everything all right?" Moffitt asked, leaning across Tully and speaking directly to Troy.

Sam nodded. "Just took a bit longer than we thought. How about you?"

"Piece of cake," Moffitt grinned.

Checking his watch, Troy glanced at all three men. "It's a little after one," he announced. "Time to find those trucks and get us some uniforms."

The plan could not have gone more smoothly. The trucks that were to carry the freight were already backed up as close as they could get to the dock. Two trucks, each with two soldiers, waited in

the cold for the routine progression of soldiers and cargo. Troy was sure the gods were smiling on him and his men today. Each member of the Rat Patrol chose a guard, and, within a short period of time, they had exchanged places with the Russians. With their new uniforms came the requisite autonomy they needed to move freely about the landing.

The two corporals immediately set about the task of dismantling the engine carburetors while Moffitt and Troy took a quick look around. They both glanced surreptitiously at the artillery guns and were pleased to find that their operators were yet to be missed.

The unpaved road from the camp to the dock was slushy from the recent snowfall. Frozen water that had collected in the large ruts left by truck tires was beginning to melt in the noonday sun. Patches of ice were turning to puddles of frigid water. The landing where the trucks were parked was concrete and spanned the interior harbor that was at least a hundred yards long. Three wooden piers creaked in syncopation with the incoming tide and swayed in the prevailing wind. Both soldiers and civilians milled about the wharf, exchanging money, trading glances, and conducting business.

Two piers were already occupied when an American ship appeared on the horizon, slowly approaching the dock. Troy checked his watch - 1:30 exactly. He nudged Moffitt, indicating the incoming vessel.

Wordlessly, Moffitt turned and headed back toward the equipment trucks where they had left Hitch and Tully. The hoods of the two trucks were propped open as the two corporals bent over the engines, occasionally looking up to gauge the proceedings. When Hitch caught sight of Troy heading back toward the trucks, he immediately jumped off the bumper and let the hood fall shut. The sound of the hood closing captured Tully's attention, and he followed Hitch's lead, jumping down to meet with Troy and Moffitt.

"This is it," Troy informed the rest of his men. He switched his rifle to the other shoulder and looked again at his watch. "They should be bringing out the prisoners any time now." He took another look around the dock. "We'll need to take out the guards as soon as possible. The Germans will be expecting us, which means they might overreact when they figure out what's going on. Our job is to keep everybody in line until Dietrich gives the signal. Then we take out the guards in the middle."

"Where do you want us, Sarge?" Hitch asked.

"You and Tully take the front. Moffit and I will bring up the rear. Whoever has the best shot will take out the guard in the middle."

Troy watched each man in turn to be sure they understood. The greatest advantage of being together so long as a single unit was that none of his men needed much instruction. They all instinctively knew their roles.

"As soon as the men are safely on the boat, we take off. Got it?" he finished

Moffitt nodded. He could almost feel his adrenaline level rise as he repeatedly grasped and released the barrel of his rifle; the palms of his hands wet with perspiration. It had been quite some time since any of them had been in battle, but the familiar fear disguised beneath a thin veil of anticipation was a feeling that would stay with them forever. Today that feeling had returned in full force.

"Troy!" Moffitt nodded in the direction of the path from the camp. Two columns of men lethargically marched up the muddy road, escorted by their captors.

"You two get inside one of the trucks," Troy ordered Hitch and Tully. "Moffitt and I will watch the parade up there," he said, indicating the front of the trucks. "Let's see how they set up before we do anything." Even with their Russian uniforms, it was best to stay out of harm's way. None of them spoke Russian and the last thing they needed was for someone to start up a conversation.

Concealed between the two trucks, Troy and Moffitt watched the procession as they approached the dock. As expected, there were two armed guards at the front of the line marching alongside the prisoners. Though they appeared thin and haggard, there was an air of expectancy among the POWs. Troy could see the expectation in their eyes, darting in all directions even as they continued to walk in a straight line. Two more guards appeared, then two more . . . but not at the end of the line as Troy had been lead to believe. Today there were a total of eight guards instead of the usual six and Sergeant Troy knew immediately something had gone wrong. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw Martin Mueller in line with the rest of the prisoners. And Dietrich was nowhere to be found.

Moffitt noticed the captain's absence, too. "Sam-" he began almost sympathetically.

Troy put up a hand to stop him. "I know." He turned back to face Moffitt as he tried to reason a plausible explanation for the captain's absence. In the end they both knew the only solution was that Dietrich had been captured, or was dead. Closing his eyes, Troy leaned against the truck for a moment in an attempt to collect his thoughts and focus on the fifteen minutes ahead of them. "They've only increased the guard," Troy thought aloud, "which means they suspect something is up, but aren't sure what."

"If they knew about the rescue they probably would have cancelled their little outing," Moffitt observed.

Troy nodded his agreement. "The Mueller kid. . ." He tapped Moffitt on the chest.

"What about him?" Moffitt asked, baffled by Troy's train of thought.

"I just saw him."

"What?" Moffitt's belief that things were finally going right evaporated when he heard the boy's name.

Troy turned back to watch the road, making sure that there were no other surprises. "Don't ask me how," he murmured to Moffitt, "but I just saw him in line with the rest of the POWs. Maybe he can tell us where the captain is."

"What about the extra guards?"

"We'll deal with them when the time comes. C'mon." Troy made his way back to the rear end of the truck, flipped up the canvas, and motioned for Tully and Hitch to join them on the ground. He quickly summarized the situation for the two corporals.

"This is going to be tough, Sarge," Hitch pointed out, shaking his head. "They can shoot at us, but we can't shoot at them. I don't like the odds."

"Well, they're the only ones we have," Troy responded somewhat testily. Realizing his response had come out stronger than he had intended, he attempted to apologize. "We've been in tougher places," he reminded his men. "This one's just going to take a little more creativity."

"What about the captain?" Tully asked, knowing Troy would not rest until he found out what had happened to Dietrich.

"I'll catch up with Martin," Troy answered solemnly. "But the captain is my problem," he warned the others. "If I can get him out of there, I will, but I don't want you all involved, understand?"

"That's _if_ he's still alive," Moffitt reminded Troy.

"Yeah," he agreed, even though he was unwilling to entertain that option.

The German prisoners lined up as they usually did, shoulder-to-shoulder, two lines to each truck. Stamping their feet, they shuffled back and forth to generate warmth as well as work-off the tension. Whether they subscribed to the rescue plan or not, the air of expectation that surrounded them was almost palpable. Subtle signs of encouragement - a touch of the hand or a wink of the eye - were passed from those of calmer dispositions to those too tense to control their anxieties. No one was willing to throw away this chance at freedom.

The Russian guards assumed their established positions, including the two new soldiers assigned to the day's duty. Patiently they waited for the cargo that did not come.

The prisoners became restless as the numbing cold and the delay tested their endurance. Finally, one of the younger soldiers broke rank and began running towards the ship. He had barely gone ten feet when two other prisoners as well as two guards tackled him. The Rat Patrol pounced on the unforeseen opportunity. In the confusion, Troy and Moffitt deftly abducted their quarry, simultaneously driving the stock of their rifles into the guards' midsections, then cutting an upper blow to their jaws. The Russians were only vaguely cognizant of the commotion around them before their world went black. After depositing the bodies in the empty trucks, the two sergeants took their place in line.

At the other end of the column, Hitch and Tully having completed their assignment, joined in the effort to sort out the entangled bodies of prisoners and guards alike. Miraculously, most of the German

POWs remained where they were in line. Rather than jeopardize the mission, they waited for the signal as Dietrich had instructed. Troy took the opportunity to grab Martin.

Martin pulled at the arm around his neck as he was drug backwards, then spun around and shoved against the side of one of the utility buildings. He could feel the barrel of the rifle in his stomach and his assailant's arm at his throat. When he regained his composure he was staring directly in the eyes of Sergeant Sam Troy.

"Sergeant!" he blurted out.

"Quiet!" Troy ordered abrasively under his breath. "You'll get us both killed." He looked behind him to be sure they weren't missed.

"But, Sergeant-" Martin said, a little less loudly.

"Dietrich," Troy whispered angrily. "Where is he?"

Martin indignantly shoved Troy's arm aside and rubbed the area under his chin that had received the most damage. "That's what I've been trying to tell you," he spat at the sergeant, then added more calmly, "they took him and Major Brückner last night. We haven't seen either of them since."

Troy could see the boy was obviously shaken, but he didn't have time to dance around Martin's sensitivity. "Who took them?"

Martin looked everywhere but at Troy as he recalled the evening's proceedings. "A couple of guards and the camp interpreter - someone named Znosko."

"How long ago was it?"

"It was the middle of the night - I'm not sure. Maybe one or two in the morning."

_Almost 12 hours ago,_ Troy thought disgustedly. Twelve hours was far too much time for an interrogation. Letting go of Martin, he motioned for him to get back in line with the rest of the prisoners. As the melee ended, he searched the dock to determine the positions of Moffitt and the two corporals. Prisoners and guards alike had assumed their positions in line and as he scanned the crowd of faces, Troy made eye contact with one prisoner in particular. Immediately, he knew this was the man Dietrich had trusted to give the signal.

When the stranger in the guard's uniform nodded his head, Willie knew it was time. He hurriedly searched his pockets for the cigarette Sergeant Shrier had given him. His fingers fumbled as he inserted the crushed cigarette between his lips. With shaking hands he struck one match, then another. The young corporal breathed a sigh of relief when the third match flared instantly. Swallowing with difficulty, and reciting every prayer he could remember, Willie brought the flame to the end of the cigarette. Inhaling the smoke, he began to violently cough as he had the previous night. Today, however, he caught the attention of the guards, giving his fellow prisoners the break they had been waiting for.

The sheer crush of moving bodies was enough to carry anyone forward, whether they were willing participants in the liberation or not. The men ran to their freedom with the urgency of prey that had suddenly escaped the hunter. Those who were unable to run were either carried or dragged along, but no one would be left behind.

One of the guards closest to Willie glanced at the unmanned artillery guns. He looked at the American ship in the harbor, then at the other guards he did not recognize. The rest of the riddle was easily solved. The escape had been planned, and the prisoners had had help from the outside. Incensed, he brought his rifle up, lining Willie up in his sights. Before he could pull the trigger, a sharp shove from the back threw him face down to the ground, his rifle skittering away beyond his reach.

"Run, boy!" Sergeant Shrier yelled at Willie as he pinned the guard to the concrete.

Willie remained where he stood, frozen in fear with the knowledge that, if it wasn't for the sergeant's intervention, he would be dead.

"Run, Corporal!" Shrier screamed again as the guard struggled under him. "That's an order!"

Something clicked in Willie's mind as he stood in the midst of the pandemonium. Whether it was because he had been given a direct order, or because he realized he was still alive and bound for home, the cloud of confusion lifted. Slowly, an appreciative smile appeared. Quickly saluting the sergeant, Willie triumphantly made a dash for the boat.

As German soldiers continued to flee to the waiting ship, Shrier and the guard frantically dove for the rifle still lying on the ground about five feet away from them. The sergeant reached the gun first, rolled

away from the guard, then jumped to his feet. Sighting down the length of the barrel, he aimed the rifle directly at the soldier lying helpless on the ground.

"Don't do it, Sergeant!" The order, in German, came from behind him. Shrier hesitated. He wanted to kill the bastard for every friend who had died in the camp, for every indignity he and his fellow prisoners has suffered at the hands for the Russian vermin. He wanted to kill him for whatever they had done to Major Brückner. He wanted justice. Sliding his thumb along the hammer, he pulled it back until it locked. His finger lighted on the cold trigger.

"Sergeant!" Again the voice spoke to him. "Don't do it."

Shrier turned slightly to look behind him. Despite the crowd that rushed around them, he could see it was one of the Allied soldiers.

"Don't make me shoot you," Moffitt sternly called out to the distraught sergeant as he stood with Shrier in the sights of his own rifle. "We'll take care of this one. Get going. You're going home. Let him go."

Shrier turned back toward the Russian sentry, who remained on the ground, his hands now clasped behind his head in an act of surrender. His finger tightened around the trigger. "He deserves to die!" he cried out.

"No, he doesn't," Moffitt calmly argued. "And neither do you. Now step away from him."

Shrier wavered. It would be easy to kill the sniveling coward that lay at his feet. He knew it; but he also knew it wasn't the sort of justice he wanted for him or his fellow inmates. Closing his eyes, he let go a long breath and fired the rifle into the air as a salute to the memory of those who would not be returning home. Satisfied that he had acted honorably he silently surrendered the gun to Moffitt.

Martin stopped when he heard the distinct crack of gunfire. As he searched for the origin of the sound, he found himself face-to-face with his father.

Ernst Mueller pulled his son aside. "Come on," he ordered the boy, "we've got to get on that ship."

Martin resisted his father's efforts to take him with him. "No!" he answered tersely, pulling his arm from the elder Mueller's grip. "I'm staying here. I'm going to look for the captain."

Ernst refused to be dissuaded. "He's dead, Martin," he said bluntly. "Forget him and come with me." He again grabbed his son by the arm, but again the teen shook himself loose.

"Go!" Martin yelled defiantly. "If there is even the slightest chance that Hauptmann Dietrich is alive, I have to be here to help him."

"He is beyond help, Martin!" Ernst admonished his son, who had turned his back to him.

Sam Troy jogged up to the two figures still remaining on the dock. "What are you two waiting for? Get going! Now!" he shouted.

Martin immediately approached Troy. "I'm staying here," he informed the sergeant. "I want to help you look for Captain Dietrich."

"He's going with me," the other prisoner countered as he turned to face the American sergeant.

Troy could immediately see the family resemblance as well as the animosity that hung between father and son. "Look," he said as his gaze roamed the dock to make sure the prisoners had made it safely to the ship. "I'm not here to play referee. You two get on that ship right now and you can fight about it later."

"But what about Captain Dietrich?" Martin asked, agitated by Troy's indifferent attitude.

"He's dead," Troy answered flatly. "We're not going after him." Lying was the only way he could think to get the boy to leave.

Martin froze his anger fused with his sorrow. "No!" he plaintively cried, shaking his head in disbelief. "You don't know that!"

Troy grabbed Martin as he threaded his way between the sergeant and his father, fully intending to head back to the camp. "Are you nuts?" Troy shouted. "They'll shoot you down before you're ten inches inside the fence."

"But Captain Dietrich. . ." Martin's voice trailed off in uncertainty even as he pleaded with Troy to investigate Dietrich's disappearance.

Troy softened at the boy's desperation. "You've done what you came to do, Martin. Go home with your father," he advised, then added, "The captain would want you to go."

Martin lowered his head as his bottom lip began to tremble. He had lost many friends in his short lifetime, but none affected him as much as losing Herr Dietrich. The emptiness he felt was incompre-hensible. They had started as steadfast opponents: a disillusioned soldier and an over-zealous hellion instinctively avoiding each other at all costs. Martin still didn't understand why Dietrich had not turned him over to the authorities the day he had been detained at the checkpoint. Looking back, it was probably the most fortuitous day in his life. Forced into an uncomfortable role of surrogate father, the captain had been demanding, but patient, caring, yet reserved. And he had been honest to a fault.

So honest, in fact, that Martin had stubbornly refused to accept the truth. Stubbornness was the one trait they had in common, but demonstrated in different ways. He was tenacious and willful, committed to nothing but his own survival. Hauptmann Dietrich had been obstinate and rigid, committed to an abstract ideal of honor that seemed to no longer have a place in the modern world. In the end, it was the captain's inflexibility that had been his demise.

Martin wistfully looked back at the camp, trying not to cry. In the short time he had known Hauptmann Dietrich, he had grown from a child to a man. He had come to understand responsibility and duty, but most of all Martin Mueller had finally learned the value of the truth. It was a lesson he would never forget.

Troy hurriedly escorted Martin and his father to the boat and returned the cheer that went up from the prisoners with a congratulatory salute. He turned just in time to dodge a bullet that whizzed by his ear. Taking cover behind a metal storage container he peered from behind the receptacle long enough to determine the origin of the shot being fired. Reinforcements from the camp were running up the path from the camp. A few had already taken up positions behind various stacks of wooden crates on the dock.

Troy grabbed the rifle still in his possession. He could not ignore his orders not to kill any of the Russian soldiers, but no one had said anything about scaring them. Sighting down the barrel of the gun, he fired off a round of shots meant to do nothing but buy him some time.

There was a split second interval before the Russians returned the volley, and Troy used the temporary lull to make a run for the utility building at the edge of the landing. A bullet marking his path on the concrete matched each stride, the last shell creasing the side of the corrugated building as he ducked behind it.

On the slope behind the building, Moffitt, Tully, and Hitch lay on their stomachs, temporarily concealed from the fresh supply of troops on the dock. They all knew they would not remain hidden for long.

Troy jumped down from the levee and joined the rest of his men on the embankment. "I'm going in after Dietrich," he said under his breath. "Take the cars and wait at the rendezvous point. We'll meet you there."

"Just a moment, Troy," Moffitt said quickly. "You can't just go waltzing into that camp. They'll shoot before they ask any questions."

Troy tugged at the collar of his uniform. "I have the outfit," he said, then lifted his gun for Moffitt to see, "and I've got a gun. You're not stopping me."

Moffitt grabbed the back of Troy's tunic before he could start out for the camp. "And what if he's dead?" he asked angrily. "Then you'll have risked your life for nothing."

Troy returned Moffitt's glare. "I made myself a promise," he explained sincerely, shaking his head in disagreement. "It won't be for nothing."

The sound of approaching soldiers prohibited any further debate. Moffitt reluctantly let go of Troy and with a wave of his hand, he silently instructed Hitch and Tully to follow him.

Troy scampered up the hillside to get a better look at the reinforcements. They all seemed to be more concerned with releasing their compatriots rather than looking for the Rat Patrol. Glancing around to be sure he had not been discovered, Troy took the long way back to the POW camp.

The sound of a gun firing wrested Dietrich into consciousness. He lay still, struggling to erase the horrific sight of Major Brückner's mutilated head from his memory as he wavered between reality and oblivion.

The room was cold and the mattress beneath him smelled of human sweat and urine. Bruised and swollen, his right eyelid refused to move when he tried to open his eyes. The left opened without much effort, but all he saw was darkness. He wondered if it was nighttime and his vision simply had not adjusted to the dark. He blinked and blinked again. When a significant amount of time passed and he still could not discern any light, he began to panic.

Stiff from lying on his side for too long without any support for his head, he forced himself to sit up. Immediately his head began to swim and he took a moment to rest against the damp concrete wall behind him. There was another wall to his right, completing the corner of the room. When the nausea passed, he felt for the floor with his unbound feet. The compacted dirt began at the edge of the mattress, which meant the mattress was on the floor. As he struggled against the rope that bound his swollen hands behind him, his fingers began to sting with renewed blood flow.

Dragging himself to his knees, Dietrich doubled over as a fit of coughing overtook him. He remained in that position for a long while, trying to garner his strength and regulate his breathing. Finally, using the wall for support, he pulled himself into a standing position.

Leaning against the wall, he tried to orient himself. He was fairly certain he was still in the basement of the administrative building - the wet, crumbling wall was certain proof. Except for his own muffled groans, and the faint sound of dripping water, the room was deafeningly quiet and he assumed he was alone.

Dietrich took a deep breath and swallowed hard. He had to forget the darkness and think. There had to be a door to the room and he would have to grope his way along the walls to find it. Slowly, with his back to the wall, he felt his way to the next corner. Stumbling as he made the turn, he managed to remain upright and continued to the next corner. The second wall was longer than the first and Dietrich guessed he had managed to walk the length of the room. If the room was rectangular in shape, the next wall should be as short as the first, and that was where the captain expected to find the door.

166


	19. Chapter 19

_**Chapter 19**_

Approaching the camp from the western wall, Troy covertly made his way along the outer fence until he reached the guard's kiosk. The camp was in turmoil, every available guard sent out to scour the area for escaped prisoners. Troy smiled to himself, satisfied with the knowledge that there were no prisoners to be found. He didn't know how long it would take until the Russians discovered the members of the Rat Patrol, but he was confident his men could evade the search party. He dismissed any alternative scenarios from his mind, concentrating instead on the task before him.

Stepping up to an open hut, Troy removed the belt around his waist. Leaning his rifle against the threshold, he expertly slipped the belt around the guard's neck. Maintaining his grip on the improvised noose, he moved with the guard as the Russian slipped to the floor, unconsciousness.

Troy tugged at the hem of his tunic, then picked up his gun. Hoping that the uniform would provide the camouflage he needed to move freely about the compound, he calmly headed to the main gate. Casually lifting the heavy wooden plank that barred the gate, he pushed it to the left side of the entrance and trotted the few meters to the building in the center of the camp.

The few soldiers milling about the porch only gave Troy a perfunctory glance as he brazenly bounded up the steps and inside. Except for the insistent ringing of a telephone, the building was oddly quiet. Attempting to maintain a low-profile, the sergeant pointedly avoided eye contact with his newly adopted colleagues. The hum of muted chatter went on around him in a language he did not understand and he prayed no one was talking to him.

Someone finally answered the phone, then slammed it back into its cradle. Ducking into an empty office, Troy watched as a stout officer angrily marched down the narrow corridor. Signaling for one of the guards to follow him, he made a left turn just as the hallway ended at the front door. When the officer and his entourage disappeared through a side door, Troy immediately knew where they were holding Captain Dietrich.

Dietrich had just found the rough, wooden door when he heard the sound of voices approaching. Slumped against the door, shaking from fever and exhaustion, he tried to formulate an escape plan. He knew it would take something akin to a miracle for him to survive such an attempt, but he stubbornly refused to allow the Russians to kill him like some defenseless animal. If he could eliminate at least one of the guards, the element of surprise would be his. Whatever happened after that, he would leave in God's hands.

Summoning his remaining strength, he positioned himself behind the door and waited. As soon as the door opened, Dietrich threw the full weight of his body against it. Blindly scrambling over the body of the fallen soldier, he lost his footing and tumbled against the opposite wall of the cell. Momentarily stunned, the captain was gasping for breath when a heavy, booted-foot pounded his head into the soft, moist earth.

"You German shit," Colonel Miranov spat as he deliberately ground the toe of his boot into the side of the captain's head.

Dietrich wanted to scream as the pain in his head increased exponentially with the crushing pressure of Miranov's foot. Instead, he gasped as another foot landed a blow to his midsection and he heard his ribs crack.

Miranov stepped away and instructed the guard to drag Dietrich to the middle of the room. "I hope you think the lives of those few men are worth dying for," he chided. "They might be going home, but I can assure you that you won't."

On his knees, bent double, his head almost touching the ground, Dietrich found he could not answer the colonel. He no longer knew what he thought, nor did he care. He was going to die and he was frightened beyond comprehension. Death had never seemed so real, so close as it did now, and fear was the only emotion he could recognize. He couldn't seem to hold a single thought in his mind. Ilsa, Gretchen, Martin, his sister, mother and father, all moved circuitously in his memory, eventually blending with memories of the desert, the Rat Patrol, Martin and Major Brückner.

In his mind he reached for each one, and could do nothing as they slipped from his grasp. When he thought he would pass out, the feel of cold metal at his temple rudely brought him back to reality.

Standing behind the prisoner, the colonel's guard held Dietrich up by the collar of his shirt. "I'd like to say good-bye," the colonel sneered, "but I still don't know what your name is." He shrugged nonchalantly. "I suppose it really doesn't matter now." Slowly, Miranov cocked the hammer of the gun.

Dietrich wanted to say something patriotic, something that would mark his death with honor and dignity, but the words would not come. Straightening under his own power, he closed his eyes and held his head erect.

When the shot was fired, Hans felt no pain except for the jarring shock of his shoulder hitting the solid ground. Everything remained dark, but he continued to hear the sound of a scuffle going on around him. Voices cursed and grunted, but one in particular stood out above the rest - that of Sergeant Sam Troy. How odd, Dietrich thought, that the last voice he would imagine hearing would be the American's.

Then, in an instant of clarity, he realized he had not been shot at all. The bullet had, apparently, come from Troy's gun. Deciding that his next move was to get out of the way of danger, Dietrich rolled to the side of the room, instantly regretting the action as his broken ribs protested the sudden activity. His face was almost touching the wall as he lay on his side, listening to the brawl until finally, there was nothing but silence.

"Captain?" Dietrich jumped when Troy touched his shoulder. When he received no response, he tried again. "Captain? Can you hear me?"

Biting his lower lip, Dietrich nodded once. He could feel Troy hurriedly slice the rope around his wrists, and at once his arms fell free.

Kneeling beside the captain, Troy gently rolled Dietrich onto his back. The face that stared back at him was one he barely recognized. Troy quickly examined the man for any obvious broken bones or bullet holes. Except for the cuts and abrasions, he appeared to be intact.

"Can you walk?" Troy asked anxiously. "These two aren't going to stay out for long and we've got a way to go."

_Walk?_ Dietrich pondered the simple request. He wasn't sure he could get to his feet, much less move one in front of the other, but if either of them were to get out of this alive he had to try. Dietrich nodded again and reached for Troy's shoulder. "Help me, please, Sergeant," he mumbled through one side of his mouth.

Troy shouldered his rifle and placed an arm under Dietrich's back. Lifting the captain's arm, he placed it around his own shoulders. He moved closer to allow Dietrich to use his body for support.

"On the count of three, Captain," Troy instructed. "One, two, three."

Dietrich struggled to his feet, half-leaning on Troy, half-grasping at the wall with his free hand to pull himself up. His breathing was rapid and shallow, and he was sweating profusely, but with Troy's help, he was standing.

They both heard a commotion coming from the floor above them. Troy propped Dietrich up against the wall. "Wait here," he ordered, then went to the door to check the hall. "It's clear," he said, waving for the captain to follow him.

Dietrich hesitated. He knew Troy was waiting for him, but he was unsure what obstacles might lie in his path to the door. Maintaining contact with the wall until the last possible moment, the captain put one foot out, then the other. When he had moved two or three feet away from the wall he tripped over a body in the middle of the floor. Putting out his arms to catch his fall, he ended up on all fours, straddling Miranov's ample leg.

"Captain!" Troy called out impatiently as he kept watch on the corridor. Turning around, he was horrified to find Dietrich blindly groping his way to the door. Instantly, he was at Dietrich's side. He passed his hand in front of the captain's good eye; the lack of response told the sergeant all he needed to know.

Placing one hand under Dietrich's arm, Troy helped him up again. "This isn't going to work!"

"Yes, it will!" Dietrich argued vehemently. "Just guide me out of here, Sergeant," he pleaded.

Both men paused to rein in their frustration. It would do neither one of them any good to lose their tempers now.

"All right," Troy agreed. "We'll make a left out of here, then up the steps to the first floor. I don't know what's waiting for us up there. We might have to make a run for it." He glanced doubtfully at the battered soldier at his side. "Can you do it?" He thought he saw a hint of a smile as the captain considered Troy's question.

"If you can do it, I can," Dietrich answered as if he were accepting a challenge.

Troy smiled despite their precarious situation. "Okay. Let's shake it."

The two men hurried down the hall, Dietrich holding onto Troy, trying not to walk out of his loose boots. The wet rattle in his chest became more pronounced with each step and as they reached the top of the stairs, Hans could not forestall another episode of coughing.

Troy was glad Dietrich could not see the concern etched on his face as he watched the man fighting for every breath. Even in light of their obstinate personalities their relationship had been competitive by its very nature. Neither of them was willing to show any sign of weakness to the other, and conversely, they would not accept any display of sympathy.

Mindful of Dietrich's dignity, Troy waited for the latest episode to pass, then asked, "Are you ready?"

Appreciative of the sergeant's discretion, Dietrich nodded his assent. "Lead on, Sergeant," he whispered hoarsely.

Troy listened at the door for a moment. The hum of activity was growing louder with each passing second and the two men in the basement would not remain unconscious much longer. Opening the door a fraction, Troy counted at least four guards standing in the corridor to his immediate right; there was no telling how many more waited outside.

"Put your hands on your head," Troy instructed.

"What?" Dietrich asked, not sure he had heard the sergeant correctly.

Troy nudged Dietrich forward with the tip of his rifle. "I'm in a Russian uniform, and you sure as hell look like a prisoner. If we're going to get out of here, we're going to have to act the part. There's a door directly in front of you, open it and turn to your left. I'll guide you from there."

Dietrich considered Troy's plan and decided he had little choice but to comply. "Just keep your finger off the trigger, please," he instructed as he slowly opened the door.

"Don't worry, Captain," Troy smiled, "we're getting out of here together."

With some difficulty, Dietrich clasped his hands on the top of his head and navigated the hall according to Troy's whispered instructions. They were almost at the front door when a clamor arose behind them.

"They're talking to you, Sergeant," Dietrich warned Troy.

"Ignore them. We're almost there," he said, urging the captain on.

"They want us to stop."

"Keep going!"

Someone yelled something in Russian just as Troy reached in front of Dietrich to open the door. He glanced up to find two soldiers approaching them, their rifles at the ready.

"Shit!" Troy said, voicing his frustration. After firing a few warning shots, he grabbed Dietrich and started running.

The Russian soldiers returned the fire as Troy pulled Dietrich across the porch and down the steps to the yard where he spied an empty staff car. "There's a car to the right," he said. "That's our ticket out of here."

Dietrich tried his best to keep up with Troy, but he stumbled on the last step. Loosing contact with the American, he became totally disoriented. He ducked as more bullets whistled past his head, then pulled himself to his feet, though he had no idea which way to run.

Troy immediately turned around when Dietrich went down; the captain was already on his feet when he reached out to help him up. "C'mon, captain!" Locking arms, Troy pleaded with the captain to keep moving.

They ran awkwardly, Troy leading the way as Dietrich stuttered behind him. The barrage of gunshots became heavier, and sprinting the distance to the car took longer than it should have. When a bullet finally found its target, Dietrich grabbed his left leg and fell to the ground.

Troy had just opened the front door of the staff car when he saw the captain go down again. Leaving the door ajar, he raced around the front of the vehicle to the opposite side where Dietrich lay on his side, clutching his left knee to his chest. There was no time to convince the wounded man to get up. Instead, Troy opened the back door and dragged Dietrich up onto the back seat.

Climbing over the front seat, Troy searched under the dash, pulling down a handful of wires. He looked up as another shot took out the back window, raining glass into the interior of the car. The soldiers were almost upon them as he continued to work on the tangle of brightly colored wires in his hand. Finally, he touched the correct wires together and the engine turned over. Knotting the metal fibers together, he engaged the transmission and the car spurted across the compound. The last obstacle was the front gate, which was closed and guarded by a soldier who immediately opened fire. Troy aimed the car for the gate, ducked behind the steering wheel, and prayed the man had enough sense to get out of the way.

Hitch had stopped counting how many times Moffitt had checked his watch. They had been successful in repeatedly eluding the Russian patrols, but time and daylight was growing short. If Troy did not come back soon, they wouldn't be able to search for him until tomorrow - and the thought of their sergeant spending the night in a Russian POW camp did not rest well with any of the men.

The roar of an engine reached their ears before they saw the car appear on the muddy road. A few minutes passed before they all breathed a collective sigh of relief. Safe behind the steering wheel of a windowless staff car sat Sergeant Sam Troy.

Troy pulled up alongside Hitch's car. From the look on Sam's face it was obvious something was wrong. Moffitt peered into the back seat to find Captain Dietrich apparently unconscious and covered in shattered glass.

"Bloody hell," the Englishman cursed under his breath at the sight.

Troy got out of the car and opened the back door. "It's worse than you think," he informed Moffitt as he began to brush the glass off of Dietrich's face and chest. "He's blind and he's got a bullet in his leg."

Moffitt looked at the pool of blood forming on the seat under the captain's leg. Without a moment's hesitation he pulled the belt from around his waist and got in the car beside Troy. Glass crunched under his weight and a shard wedged in Moffitt's knee as he kneeled on the floor next to the captain. He pulled the shard out and tossed it aside, then fastened the belt around Dietrich's thigh.

"This will stop the bleeding," he told Troy, "but he needs a doctor."

Troy abruptly left the car and called out to Tully. "Get rid of this thing," he said, indicating the Russian car, "then get back here. We've got to get out of here."

"Troy!" Moffitt stood beside Troy. He didn't think Sam understood how seriously Dietrich was wounded. "What about him?" he asked, indicating the captain.

Troy shook his head. His first responsibility was to the safety of his men. "He'll have to wait," the American sergeant decided. When he saw the look of incomprehension on Moffitt's face, he glanced at Dietrich, then back at Moffitt. "He'd understand," he said simply, certain Dietrich would do the same if they traded places.

Tully left the car well hidden in a grove of large pine trees, about fifty meters off of the main road. There wasn't much he could do about the tire tracks left in the snow. He could only hope they might mislead the search parties, and buy the Rat Patrol a little more time. Jogging back, he reached the rendezvous point just as Troy and Hitch finished transferring Dietrich to the back seat of their car.

Troy propped the captain in a tentative sitting position, his legs extended across the back seat of the car. As he gently closed the door, Dietrich slumped against it, just as Troy had expected. "Okay-" he started, but was distracted by the clattering sound of advancing motorcycles.

Without further discussion the four men automatically climbed into their cars. Troy shouted "move out" over the din of the roaring engines.

Troy periodically turned to check the progress of their pursuers. He watched as one motorcycle, then another, wiped out on the muddy road behind them. He remained concerned as the two smaller cars behind them continued the chase. The larger Mercedes had a more difficult time maneuvering along the snow encrusted roads; both Hitch and Tully fought with the steering mechanism to keep from bogging down in the wet blanket of snow. Struggling to maintain control over the cars, however, slowed them and the Russians were quickly gaining ground.

Gunfire rang out in the empty countryside as the two patrol cars advanced on the Rat Patrol. Hitch gunned the engine, providing the impetus the rear wheels needed to spray mud and gravel over the Russian vehicles. The burst of energy also gave the car the power it needed to climb off of the muddy shoulder onto the main route leading out of Kaliningrad.

Once on the paved road the two black sedans seemed to sail over a sea of gray asphalt. The Russian patrol continued their pursuit, but their smaller engines were no match for the eight cylinder German vehicles.

Hitch glanced in the rearview mirror and smiled appreciatively as he patted the steering wheel. "Good old German engineering, huh, Sarge?" Grinning, he pressed the accelerator and proceeded to pass Tully and Moffitt.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Troy reminded the corporal even as the Russian headlights grew dim in the gray obscurity of early evening.

Once again, as he did every fifteen minutes since they had begun their journey, Troy turned around in the front seat to reach for the belt wrapped around the captain's leg. And once again, Dietrich flinched as Troy unfastened the belt to allow blood to flow to his leg. He supposed it was a good thing that the captain still felt pain in the leg; it was better than feeling nothing at all.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Troy said as he refastened the belt.

Dietrich's fingers dug into the back of Hitch's seat as he braced himself against the inevitable discomfort. "Don't apologize, Sergeant," he said as he tried to stop his leg from jerking away from Troy's touch. When the pain passed and his leg went numb again, he leaned his head against the back seat and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth. "Just get us home," he softly pleaded between staggered breaths, leaving his fate in the hands of four men who had once been his enemy.

Hours passed and the roads became more rugged as the sedan sped eastward over the rough terrain. Dietrich grabbed his leg to keep it from moving from the seat, but no amount of prevention could keep his ribs from aching due to the constant jarring. He coughed, a deep, raspy cough that emanated from his chest, and as the car hit another bump he felt as if his whole body had exploded in pain. A thousand watts of voltage seemed to spread to every nerve ending, and, no longer able to tolerate the agony, Dietrich let out a loud groan as his head lolled back against the cold window.

Troy turned immediately to check on the captain's condition. Dietrich was sweating and shaking with chills at the same time. Kneeling in the front seat, the sergeant glanced at the captain's leg. The dark patch of blood looked wet again and he noticed the tourniquet was undone.

Troy watched outside the rear window, then surveyed the surrounding countryside. Except for the soft glow of moonlight, there were no lights other than the headlights of Moffitt's car. Convinced that they had evaded the Russian search party, Troy cautiously ordered Hitch to pull over.

Finding a barren patch of land off the road, Hitch slowed the engine and swung the car onto the shoulder. Troy immediately jumped out of the front seat, and kneeling on the floorboard in the back, he gently shook Dietrich's shoulder.

"Captain?" he called, wondering if Dietrich was still conscious.

"_Ja?_" Dietrich responded weakly, too exhausted to bother translating his answer to English.

Troy took his answer as a bad sign. The heat radiating from the man's body was the result of infection, and the response in German meant he was succumbing to the fever. "Stay with me, Captain," Troy demanded, his entreaty more a warning than a request. The longer the captain held onto consciousness, the better his chances of survival.

Dietrich weakly nodded his head, indicating he understood Troy's order.

"Your leg is bleeding again." Troy spoke distinctly to ensure the captain's comprehension. "I'm going to put the tourniquet back on." He watched Dietrich for a moment and when he didn't respond, he asked, "Do you understand?"

Dietrich nodded again, valiantly fighting to stave of the encroaching oblivion. Shapeless faces and bodies floated in front of him, crying out his name, calling him away. Just as he was about to follow, the cascade of ephemeral visions was suddenly replaced with a blinding white light as the searing pain in his leg traveled the length of his body. Abruptly called from vacillating states of consciousness, Dietrich sat up sharply, blindly searching for source of his discomfort. Delirious with pain, he attempted to stop Troy from tightening the makeshift tourniquet, but the sergeant gave it one more pull before pulling his arm from the captain's grasp.

"Hitch!" Troy called. "Hold him down," he said as he inspected the bullet wound.

"He doesn't look good, Sarge," Hitch observed as he grabbed Dietrich by the arm and held him against the back seat.

Two headlights broke through the black night. A car rounded the bend behind them, passed by, then reversed and parked in front of their car. Troy immediately drew his gun and crouched behind the open back door. He had no reason to suspect it was anyone but Moffitt, but he had also learned from past mistakes that it was better to err on the side of caution.

A lone figure left the passenger side of the vehicle and walked towards Troy, while shielding his eyes from the glare of Hitch's headlights. "What's going on?" Moffitt asked as he approached the car. He glanced at the gun Troy had in his hand and arched his eyebrows. "I say," he said as he raised his hands in mock surrender, "that's no way to greet a friend."

Troy holstered his gun. "His leg looks bad, Moffitt," he said as he motioned for the Englishman to take a look at Dietrich.

Moffitt stepped inside the back of the car and crouched down beside the captain. Tearing a large hole in Dietrich's pant leg, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. It was difficult to see anything in the car's dome light, but he didn't need a light to know Hauptmann Dietrich was failing. The leg was swollen and hot to the touch. He gently wiped away the fresh blood as Dietrich flinched and instinctively tried to withdraw his leg from the sergeant's touch.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Moffitt noted, watching as Dietrich took a number of shallow, rapid breaths, followed by a deep, rattling cough. He shook his head and anxiously looked at Troy. "He's burning up with fever, and I think he's got a touch of pneumonia." Grimly, he added, "He's not going to make it if he doesn't get some medical help - soon."

Dietrich stirred and tried to raise himself against the back window panel. "Sergeant," he called, his voice a soft rasp.

"It's Moffitt," the British sergeant identified himself.

"Where are we?"

Moffitt looked at Troy.

"Tully!" Troy yelled across the two parked cars. "Where are we?"

Tully jogged back to Troy and the others with a map and flashlight in his hand. Spreading the map on the hood of Troy's car, he, Hitch, and Troy examined the route they were taking. "We're right here." Tully pointed to a section of road on the map. "About twenty kilometers outside of Danzig."

Troy sprinted to the driver's side of the car. "We're close to Danzig," he advised Dietrich. "Why?"

Eyes closed, Dietrich took a few more shallow breaths, laboring to collect his strength. "There's a woman there," he said between breaths. "Irena Romanoski." He swallowed with difficulty and coughed again. "I think she'll be able to help."

Creeping through the war-torn city, the cars searched for the section of town that Dietrich had described from memory. However, the captain's memory did not take into account the destruction resulting from the Allied bombings and Troy was unsure if Dietrich was lucid, or simply hallucinating. After a few false turns, the sergeant spotted a fallen sign with the name of the street Dietrich remembered.

Hitch made a right turn down the narrow cobblestone street, and Troy searched for the house the captain had described. Unfortunately, the houses that had survived the bombings were all similar to each other in appearance, especially in the middle of the night without any significant light and without any markings that would distinguish the woman's house from any other.

"Pull over," Troy curtly ordered as they finished making a complete circle around four blocks of homes. He turned back to address Dietrich, who laid with his head leaning against the back of the seat. His eyes were open and Troy assumed he was awake.

"Dietrich," he began, watching as the captain raised his head in response. "Is there _anything _about this woman's house that would set it apart from the others? A decoration, a color, something that would be noticeable from the street?"

A fit of coughing overtook the captain and he gasped for air to fill his lungs. He tried to concentrate on Troy's question as a means to distract his mind from the deluge of aches and pains that assaulted him. The Romanoski house. He had been there so many times that the home had become familiar to him and he could not remember any subtle differences that would stand out to a stranger. He tried to recall the small front lawn, the few stairs that led to the porch, the front door with an inset window.

"The front door," he whispered breathlessly, "there is a stained glass window in the front door." Six years later, he could still recall how the sunlight would scatter the colors of the inset glass.

"I saw it, Sarge." Hitch remembered thinking how unusual it was to see such beauty still intact in the midst of all the ruin.

Troy glanced at Hitch and, with a nod of his head, instructed the corporal to move out. Finally, something was going right.

The two black sedans pulled up to what was left of the curb in front of the Romanoski home. Troy took a moment to evaluate the situation. The house was dark, as were the other homes on this block. Everything appeared normal; there didn't seem to be any reason to hesitate.

Troy asked Hitch to make sure they had the right house before he went to give Moffitt his instructions. Glancing at Dietrich in the back seat, he found the captain with his eyes closed; he appeared to be breathing a little easier.

Getting out of the car, Troy jogged back to Moffitt and Tully in the other car. Troy waited for Moffitt to roll down his window. "I think this is it," he spoke quickly. "Hitch is going to make sure Dietrich's 'friend' still lives here."

Moffitt observed a light in a window as Hitch stood at the door. "This is all very interesting, isn't it?" he asked. "What sort of female friend would the good captain have in this place?"

Troy grinned at the innuendo. "I guess we'll find out." Looking back over his shoulder, Troy saw Hitch running towards them.

"This is the right place," he told the others as he shoved his hands into the deep jacket pockets. "But you're not going to believe this," Hitch predicted.

"Whaddya mean?" Troy asked testily.

Hitch smiled, his blue eyes dancing mischievously behind his glasses. "You'll see," he answered, refusing to divulge the knowledge only he was privy to. "C'mon," he directed, "she wants us to bring him up the back stairs."

"Great," Troy muttered under his breath, "I guess you didn't bother to tell her he's got a bad leg."

Hitch turned around, and as he was walking backwards, he shrugged. "I did, but she insisted we take him up the back."

Leaning against the back door, Dietrich slumped into Troy's waiting arms as Hitch opened the door. His shirt was soaked with sweat, his hair wet and matted against his head. The captain woke with a start. Unsure where he was, he began to squirm in Troy's hands, even as his body screamed at him to stop moving.

"Dietrich," Troy barked, fighting to keep the man from harming himself any further. "It's me, Troy," he reminded the dazed captain. Even in his weakened state, Dietrich was putting up a good fight.

Someone struck him hard across the face, but that pain only served to blend with the rest of Dietrich's ills and he continued to fight until a racking cough caused him to fall unevenly off of the seat. He could no longer feel his wounded leg, but his ribs bounced mercilessly on the hard, cold floor of the car.

"That's what you get for being such a goddamn stubborn Kraut," Troy complained, unsure if the captain heard, or cared.

The stamina had been drained out of Hauptmann Hans Dietrich. All that was left was a frightened, sick human being. Dietrich winced and gasped in agony as Hitchcock and Troy pulled him from the back of the car.

Wrapping the captain's arm around his own shoulders and, putting his other arm around Dietrich's waist, Troy asked, "Can you stand, Captain?" He got the answer he expected when Dietrich nodded once, then slumped to his knees. "Hitch! Give me a hand."

Dietrich groaned again as Hitch took his arm and helped the officer to his feet. He hesitated before wrapping his arm around the captain's broken ribs. Instead, Hitch grabbed the waist of Dietrich's pants and pulled him upright.

Troy nodded and the two men partially dragged the incapacitated German across the yard to the side of the house where they found the stairs leading to the top floor. It would be too awkward for them to pull him up the stairs, Troy thought; the captain would have to navigate the steps himself.

"Captain," Troy said as he surveyed the stairs, "we'll get you up the stairs, but you'll have to give us a little help."

Dietrich winced again, but turned his head in the direction of Troy's voice. "How many?" he asked pragmatically. His breathing was now a steady wheeze, his voice barely a whisper.

Troy did a fast count. "Twelve or thirteen."

Dietrich allowed his head to drop, summoning the remnants of his willpower, and found the strength to attempt the steps. "Point me in the right direction, will you, Sergeant?"

A faint smile played across Troy's face. The captain had not yet run out of courage. "Yes, sir," he replied, confident that Dietrich would be able to manage the obstacle.

When they arrived at the top landing Dietrich was shaking. He had slowly taken each of the twelve steps on one leg as if he were limping through a minefield, dragging his left leg behind him. Every few steps he took a break to cough and catch his breath. Fortunately, Irena Romanoski opened the door just as Dietrich passed out in Troy's arms.

"Bring him here," Irena ordered in a hushed voice. She stepped aside from the doorway and tied her robe around her plump waist.

Troy now realized why they had had to go up the back stairs. The little room they entered was cluttered with all types of family heirlooms and memorabilia. In one corner of the room was an old, lumpy mattress, which Irena had covered in clean sheets and a blanket. On the floor beside the makeshift bed was a basin of water and some clean rags.

"Put him there," she said, indicating the mattress.

Kneeling on the floor, Irena bent over Hans' thin frame and tenderly unbuttoned his shirt to better asses the damage.

The familiarity with which she worked stunned the members of the Rat Patrol. Troy guessed Irena Romanoski to be at least sixty years old, but the strain of living through two horrific wars had unnaturally aged her. Her dark hair was nearly all gray and she kept it tied in a bun on the top of her head. She was short and stout, and possessed tired eyes that distracted from her kind face.

With the slowness of age, she pushed herself up to her feet and looked at Troy. "You undress him," she told them in a no-nonsense fashion. "I will be back."

Troy looked at Moffitt, who looked at Hitch. "What is this all about?" Sam asked in amazement. "I thought-"

"We all know what you thought, Sarge." Hitch smiled in amusement. "I told ya you wouldn't believe it!"

174


	20. Chapter 20

_**Chapter 20**_

Moffitt finished undressing the captain down to his t-shirt and shorts and cleaned the rest of him as best he could with the cloths Irena had left. Paying special attention to the bullet lodged in Dietrich's leg, he cleaned the wound and took a better look. The shell had deeply penetrated the tissue, cutting through muscles and tendons.

"It's bad," he announced, as he dipped the blood-stained rag into the basin, turning the water a nauseating shade of red. "But I don't think it reached the bone. His leg is quite cold, though. If I don't remove the belt. . ." Moffitt didn't need to finish the thought.

Troy nodded in understanding. Even though Dietrich already had lost a significant amount of blood there was no sense in putting his leg in jeopardy. "Do it," he ordered.

Wrapping layers of improvised bandages around the captain's leg, Moffitt loosened the tourniquet and watched as the bandage turned red. A minute later, he had tightly fastened the belt back around Dietrich's thigh.

Irena returned with a tray of innovative surgical equipment - a pair of household scissors, a paring knife, tweezers, a needle and thread and an unopened a bottle of vodka beside a tall glass. She handed the tray to Moffitt, then removed the vodka and the glass. Filling the glass with the alcohol, she handed the remaining contents to Moffitt.

"This is for Hauptmann Dietrich," she sternly informed the Englishman, holding the bottle up for the sergeant's inspection - in case he assumed the drink was intended for herself. "The rest you may use to sterilize the instruments."

Moffitt accepted the tray and laid it on the floor next to him. The temporary bandage was soaked with blood, as was the sheet underneath the captain. He shook his head. He didn't relish playing the role of surgeon. His background in archaeology had given him some expertise in handling fine instruments, as well as a rudimentary knowledge of physiology, but digging up the dead was vastly different from operating on the living.

Moffitt looked again at Dietrich's haggard face and back to the stained rags. One thing was for sure, if something wasn't done soon, Hauptmann Hans Dietrich would soon join the ranks of his archaeological finds.

Irena sat on the mattress next to Dietrich. With little effort she positioned her left hand under his shoulders and raised the semiconscious officer from the bed. At the same time, she held the glass of vodka to his lips.

The strong odor of bad alcohol stimulated Dietrich's senses and he knew enough to turn his head away from the glass that was touching his lips. Somewhere a woman's voice was encouraging him to drink. Feeling as though he should comply just to be rid of the woman and be left in peace, he drank as best he could between swollen lips, finishing half of the glass.

The heat that pulsed through him was alarming. Frantically, he waved away the drink, only to have his arms pinned by his side by someone stronger than he was.

Softly, but sternly, Irena spoke to him in German and Hans stopped struggling. Gently smoothing his hair back from his bruised face, she asked, "Captain, can you hear me? It's Irena. Irena Romanoski. You remember me, don't you?"

Dietrich remembered Irena Romanoski, but she was in Danzig. He was in Kaliningrad and certain that someone was deliberately attempting to mislead him. He hesitated, noting the soft mattress under him, the warm blankets, and a pillow under his head. He wasn't in Kaliningrad. Troy had rescued him. He remembered the bullet in his leg, the shattering glass, but anything after that was hazy at best.

"Where am I?" he asked groggily.

"Danzig," Irena answered kindly, "you're in Danzig." There was something odd about the way he stared past her. "Can you see me?"

Dietrich shook his head. "Sergeant Troy and his men?" he asked between labored breaths.

Irena looked at the weary men anxiously watching from a distance. One nodded in her direction confirming their identity. "They are here also," she answered patiently.

The captain seemed to relax a little. Through a combination of Troy's determination and God's grace, he thought, they had made it. They were safe.

Kneeling on the floor beside the makeshift bed, Moffitt leaned over Dietrich"s shoulder. "Captain," he said in German to be sure he'd be understood, "you've lost a lot of blood and your leg is infected. We have to get the bullet out. There are no other options."

Dietrich steadied himself. He understood exactly what had to be done. Reaching out for Irena, he asked for the vodka. He put out his hand, but someone raised his head and again put the glass to his lips. The alcohol was the only anesthetic available and he quickly finished the drink to get the full inebriating effect.

Again the burning sensation spread through him like fire, precipitating a fit of coughing so violent he was forced to hastily sit up. Dietrich's myriad aches and pains were compounded by the successive convulsions of his lungs rejecting the increasing collection of fluid. When he could no longer hold himself up, someone slipped behind him to support his back as Irena held a cloth at his mouth to catch the expectoration. Finally, mercifully, the coughing stopped and when his breathing became more regular he was allowed to lie down.

Moffitt tried to decipher the range of emotions reflected in Irena's eyes as she carefully tended to the captain. He found something more than concern - something beyond caring and compassion. There was tenderness and a bond of shared affection that was deeper than fondness, more genuine than friendship. But it was the uniqueness of their relationship, rather than its unusual aspects, that he found remarkable.

Combined with the fever and blood loss, the vodka had done its job. Irena watched as the captain's pallor grew pale and his lips took on a light blue hue. "He is no longer conscious," she informed Moffitt. "We must act quickly."

"Hand me those blankets," Moffitt said, indicating the folded covers stacked in a corner of the room. "The bullet entered the back of his leg," he explained, "it will be easier to get to it if he's lying on his side."

Irena made a move towards the blankets, but Hitch beat her to them. As Moffitt gently rolled Dietrich on his right side, he packed the blankets behind the captain's back to prevent him from rolling over.

Having doused the paring knife in the alcohol, Moffitt removed the bandage and enlarged the small wound to extract the bullet. "Hold his leg," the English sergeant snapped nervously at Tully as Dietrich involuntarily twitched under the knife.

Gently grasping the bullet with the tweezers, Moffitt cautiously pulled it out. The slug did more damage coming out than it did going in, but Moffitt succeeded in preserving much of the healthy tissue. He thoroughly cleaned the wound, picking at the bits of material the bullet had carried with it upon entry. Tully opened an envelope of sulfanilamide from their first aid kit, and Moffitt sprinkled the powder on the injury to kill the bacteria. He was about to bandage the leg when Irena stopped him.

"You must suture the wound," she urged, making a sewing motion with her hand.

When Moffitt explained that he didn't have that particular technical expertise, Irena threaded the needle. Pinching the top layer of skin between her thumb and forefinger, she whip-stiched the opening together. "This will hold until you can get him to a doctor," she said, admiring her handiwork.

Moffitt helped her wrap the leg in clean bandages as Hitch removed the blankets and laid Dietrich on his back.

Pushing an errant strand of hair out of face with her arm, Irena nodded at the belt around Dietrich's leg. "You can take that off now," she said confidently.

Irena waited a moment after Moffitt released the tourniquet then felt Dietrich's ankle for a pulse. She intently watched the captain for a movement, a noise - any sign that would indicate he had not given up the fight. Finally she felt a pulse. The faint throbbing was thin and thready, but it was there, and for the first time since Hauptmann Dietrich appeared on her doorstep that night, Irena Romanoski was able to relax.

"How-?" Moffitt could not contain his astonishment at the woman's surgical talents.

Irena smiled sadly. "I was a nurse once," she said, wistfully, "but it was a very long time ago."

Wringing out the clean cloth, Irena carefully folded it and tenderly placed the cold compress on Dietrich's forehead. He was still pale and breathing with difficulty, but he appeared to be comfortable, and that was all she could offer him for the moment. Suddenly aware of the curious stares from the strangers who had accompanied the captain, Irena looked up at the expectant faces around her.

"I suppose introductions are in order." Moffitt smiled as he offered his hand to assist the elderly woman to her feet. He was surprised at how dainty her small hand felt in his.

Irena greeted each man with a solid handshake. "You are Hauptmann Dietrich's friends?" she asked warily, unsure what interest the Americans had in Herr Hauptmann.

Troy gave her a crooked smile. His tired eyes reflected his amusement for he could not imagine how Dietrich would react to that particular question. "It's a long story, ma'am," he patiently explained, "but, yes, we are his friends."

Irena had no reason to doubt these men. They were polite and helpful, and they had cared enough about the captain to bring him to her. "I am grateful to you, for bringing him here," she replied candidly. "How did this happen?"

Tully offered Irena the chair he had been sitting in. She slowly eased her tired body into the ragged, overstuffed armchair and listened to Sergeant Troy's tale of infiltration, rescue, and escape. Looking at the captain, she shook her head; Hauptmann Dietrich had apparently changed very little over the years.

Preferring not to think about those years, Irena brought her attention back to the Allied soldiers in her attic. "You must be hungry," she said, wearily rising from the chair. "I will find something for you to eat."

Troy had not thought about food all day, until now, and he realized that neither he nor his men had eaten since early that morning. "If it's not too much trouble," he replied, even though he would have preferred not to impose any further on their hostess.

"It is not too much trouble," she smiled sweetly, then added, "you will watch Herr Hauptmann while I am gone, yes?"

"Yes," Troy agreed, recognizing the woman's concern, "we will watch him."

Satisfied that Dietrich would be safe while she was gone, Irena disappeared down the stairs to the house below.

"Sarge!" Hitch exclaimed as soon as he was sure Irena was out of hearing range.

Troy made a gesture with his hands for Hitch to keep it down. "I know, I know," he said. It was obvious to everyone that there was much more to this mystery than either Dietrich or Irena had let on.

"Whaddya think, Doctor?" Troy's eyes followed Moffitt as the English sergeant searched the room for a clue to the puzzle.

Shaking his head, Moffitt shrugged. "You know as much as I do," he commented while he continued to inspect the shelves, laden with dusty boxes of family heirlooms. He sifted through faded family pictures, postcards, and personal letters in one carton. In another was official looking documents, a

marriage certificate and a bundle wrapped in brown paper, tied with a string. He opened a particularly large leather case on a lower shelf and paused.

"Well, there's one thing for sure," Moffitt observed as he lifted the contents of the container, "they're not related."

Completely bewildered, Troy stood motionless, staring at the brightly polished menorah in Moffitt's hand. "What the hell?" Irena Romanoski was, apparently, a Jew, and Dietrich was definitely a German officer. There was something in the equation that defied all laws of practicality.

Moffitt raised his eyebrows. "Unless our hostess is dealing in the black market, I'd say we've got something of a mixed marriage going on here."

Troy laughed under his breath. "Boy! Is that an understatement!" The already odd relationship between Romanoski and Dietrich just became much more complicated.

"She's coming back," Tully whispered from his perch atop the stairs.

Carefully, Moffit laid the menorah back in its case and placed the container in its original position on the shelf. Calmly, he sat down in an old wooden rocker, which squeaked under his weight.

Troy took the tray from Irena and set it on an old wooden stand against the wall, between the exposed beams, under the eaves. He had scarcely offered his thanks before Irena turned to check on Dietrich.

The bandage was wet with fresh blood, but it was not enough to warrant a change. The captain's foot was still cold, but Irena felt it was due more to the weather than poor circulation. She tenderly tucked the soft blanket underneath Dietrich, refreshed the cold compress and replaced it on his forehead. Listening to the wheeze in the man's chest, Irena decided a mustard plaster was in order, but it could wait until morning. She was tired, and she was sure Troy and his men were also.

"You will find extra pillows and blankets in that closet." She nodded toward an old wardrobe at the far end of the attic. Slowly rising from her knees, she stiffly straightened her back and yawned. "Please use whatever you find to make yourselves comfortable." She took one final look at Dietrich. "He should sleep now, but if something should happen-"

"We'll be here," Troy assured her before should could finish her thought.

Irena smiled gratefully. They had done so much already; these were men she could trust with Hauptmann Dietrich's life. As she descended the stairs she guessed that Herr Hauptmann had chosen his friends well.

Morning came slowly, the sun shining only intermittently between the heavy dark clouds hanging overhead. The window at the front of the attic rattled when a good wind pushed the clouds along, and Troy had listened to the noise for the better part of an hour before he rolled over on his side and covered his ears with a pillow. The layers of blankets and bed linens offered little protection from the hardwood floor beneath him, however, and he was finally forced to sit up when his body started to complain about the accommodations.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he glanced at Dietrich, who appeared to be sleeping. At his bedside, keeping vigil, was Irena.

The acrid smell of mustard was the first thing that Dietrich recognized as he slowly groped his way back to some semblance of consciousness. The second thing was a sharp, biting pain in his leg that only grew worse when he tried to move the limb. Then he felt the discomfort welling up inside - the tightness in his chest, the ache in his side. Acutely aware of every breath he took, he thought he would suffocate until his lungs contracted and he began to cough again. Someone - he thought it must be Irena - lifted him from the mattress and held him in a seated position until the episode passed. He turned his head away from the glass of water at his lips, but Irena would not allow him to lie down again until he had finished the contents.

Then came the inevitable chills. Even with layer upon layer of covering for warmth, Dietrich could not stop himself from shaking. Finally, exhausted from the effort it took to remain awake, he succumbed to peaceful oblivion.

Kneeling beside Dietrich, Troy bundled his pillow and placed it under the captain's shoulders to keep him in some sort of sitting position. "How is he?" he asked, even though the answer was obvious.

Irena continued to administer the cold compresses as she dabbed at the sweat beading on his face and neck. "He slips in and out of consciousness," she explained evenly. "He has a high fever, and if he does not drink water, he will dehydrate."

Troy thought her response was a little too devoid of feeling until he saw her hands shake as she tightly pulled the blankets around Dietrich. He took her hands in his. "You need to rest," he said kindly. "Let me stay with him for a while."

Irena reluctantly agreed. She had been up long before dawn. The exhausting work, combined with the flood of emotions she had had to ignore, had taken their toll. She didn't need much persuasion to convince her that she, too, needed to lie down.

The wet rattle in Dietrich's chest competed with the clatter of the window, but otherwise, the attic was quiet. Moffitt, Hitch, and Tully slept undisturbed by the weather, the window or Dietrich's coughing. Troy saw no reason to wake them - this was going to be their home until the captain was back on his feet, and he was sure they would be bored out of their minds by then.

With his back against the cold wall, Troy stretched out his legs and watched Dietrich as he slept. The captain's breathing took on a staccato rhythm - short breaths punctuated now and then by a small cough. He mumbled in disjointed phrases, fluctuating between German and English, and from time to time, his whole body would twitch uncontrollably.

"Who would've thought we'd end up here, like this, Captain?" Troy doubted very much that Dietrich heard him, but the one-sided conversation was more for his own good than the German's. "Three years ago we were shooting at each other; now look at us. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep you alive." He laughed at the reversal of fortunes and ran his hand across his face. "Even play nurse. So don't think you're going to die on me now."

Rolling the rag into a ball, he tossed it in the shallow pan of water. Dropping his sarcastic pretense, he moved closer to Dietrich. "I used to think I knew what made you tick - all of that duty and honor bullshit. That rhetoric might've worked for you once, but it doesn't wash now, Captain. It's something different now." Troy took a moment to re-evaluate his appraisal of Hans Dietrich. "Maybe it's your conscience, or your sense of responsibility. Maybe it's just that goddamn stubborn streak that won't let you quit."

Troy wrung out the wet cloth and again placed it on Dietrich's forehead. "Moffitt once told me you have an 'indomitable spirit,'" he said, mimicking his British partner's cultured accent, then quietly added, "I hope you do."

The long day stretched into a long night and Troy was getting restless. They had all taken their turn doing nurse duty for Dietrich and as Irena tended to the captain, the American sergeant glanced around the room. Tully was busy beating Hitch out of a week's wages with the deck of cards he had found; Moffitt had his nose buried in a book, squinting at the print under the glow of another oil lamp. Wordlessly, he fished into his shirt pocket for a cigarette and stepped outside.

Leaning against the banister, he looked out into the dark night as a soft breeze tousled his hair and carried his cigarette smoke higher and higher until it scattered and disappeared. The incessant rain had dwindled to a fine mist that was persistent enough to make everything damp and sticky.

The ruins that were once Danzig stretched out before him. Once a free city, largely populated by Germans, Danzig had been incorporated into the Reich at the beginning of the war. At the end, after years of Allied bombing, there was little left that one could call a city. At night, with only a glimmer of light here and there to mark the boundaries of the destruction, the jagged skyline resembled an ugly scar of a wound that would need a great deal of time to heal.

Time weighed heavily on Troy's mind. Only four hours to Berlin and they would be home, yet they were stuck here until Dietrich was well enough to be moved. He rubbed his eyes. Perhaps he should send Moffitt and Tully ahead to let HQ know where they were and what the delay was all about. But he needed Moffitt - Dietrich needed the Engishman - and Troy doubted Tully would leave without the doctor.

He knew Hitch would not leave without him, and he would not leave without Dietrich. Without a viable alternative, Troy decided that, for the time being, they should all stay put and make the best of their confinement.

For the first time in more days than he could remember, Hans was warm. The swelling on the right side of his face had gone down a bit and he was able to open his mouth wide enough to ask for water. Almost immediately he could feel the glass at his lips. The water wasn't cold, but it was wet and he could sense the warm liquid as it traveled through his parched body. Thankfully, the cough that routinely followed such activity was lighter and didn't sap his strength as before.

"Frau Romanoski?" Although the pain behind his eyes had lessened somewhat, Dietrich's vision still had not been restored, but at least he could remember where he was.

"I'm here, Herr Hauptmann." She calmly took his hand in hers, but inside Irena was overjoyed that he had remembered enough to ask for her. "How are you feeling?"

Dietrich licked his dry lips and sharply inhaled as much air as his lungs would allow. "Tired," he finally answered.

Irena felt Dietrich's forehead. The heat radiating from his face worried her. "You're still fighting the infection. You need to rest, allow your body to heal."

A hint of a smile crossed Hans' lips. Resting was the only thing he was capable of at the moment. "What day is it?"

"Sunday," Irena replied. "You've been here since Friday night."

_Two days, _Hans thought. He had hoped to be home today. "I have to leave," he announced, suddenly agitated.

It didn't take much of an effort for Irena to restrain the captain. "You must rest," she insisted, "regain your strength. When you are better, then you may leave."

Hans was gasping for air, his leg and head simultaneously throbbing from the sudden exertion. Physically drained from the minor skirmish, he had little choice but to comply with his orders. "Ilsa," he whispered hoarsely, attempting to explain. "I promised."

"Frau Dietrich will wait for you," Irena reassured him. "She wants you back safe and whole, not in a coffin."

Dietrich nodded in agreement. Even in his dulled state of mind, he too realized he would not easily make the trip home. "Sergeant Troy?" he called out.

"He is not here," Irena answered. "The sergeant and his men have gone to check on their cars. I think they just needed an excuse to leave here for a while."

Another faint smile played on Dietrich's lips. He wouldn't be surprised if the members of the Rat Patrol were climbing the walls by now. Another cough interrupted their conversation, when Hans asked, "How is David?"

Irena held another glass of water to Dietrich's mouth. "He is fine," she said proudly as she waited for the captain to drink his fill. "He is in Switzerland." Irena gently lowered Dietrich"s head to the pillows. "Thanks to you," she added gratefully, but Hauptmann Dietrich had already fallen asleep.

At the request of their hostess, Troy and his men joined Irena for dinner Sunday evening. Although she had allowed them to roam about the house at will, for the most part, they had kept to themselves in the attic. Tonight was the first time any of them had used the small dining room off of the kitchen.

The table was set for five with bits and pieces of unmatched china. Most of the chairs around the table matched, except for the ones at either end of the table and the furniture seemed to be a complete set. The floral wallpaper was old and yellowed and spoke of better, more prosperous days. The rug was worn, but sturdy and, like its owner, had withstood the test of time.

There were only a few pictures on the wall. One was obviously Irena and her husband on their wedding day. The other was a young man, probably in his 20s and, by the family resemblance, Troy guessed him to be Irena's son. The old woman appeared to be living alone, which caused Troy to wonder what had happened to her family.

The four men milled about uneasily until Irena appeared at the table with a heavy soup tureen. Moffitt took it from her and placed it in the middle of the table. When Irena disappeared back into the kitchen, he lifted the lid to take a peek at their main course.

"It's rather purple-looking," Moffitt reported as he gingerly replaced the cover.

"Purple?" Hitch asked warily.

Moffitt grinned. "Uh-huh, and it smells wonderful."

"All right, Professor," Troy asked, knowing he was playing into Moffitt's hands. "What is it?"

Moffitt put on his "glad-that-you-asked" smile. "It's beet soup," he answered knowingly. "I've had it once or twice in the past."

Troy dubiously looked at his friend. There were many things that Moffitt had had "once or twice in the past" that he would never have touched.

Tully snickered at the suspicion written across Troy's face. "It's not bad if you sprinkle a little sugar on it," he chimed in.

Troy sprinkled a lot of sugar on his soup, and managed to finish the serving without incident. Moffitt and Tully, however, asked for seconds, and even Hitch didn't seem to mind the bitter taste. The sugar cookies for desert were more to Troy's liking, and he drowned the sour taste of the soup with a couple cups of coffee.

Dinner conversation was pleasant, but centered on politics, the war, and the fate of the modern world. Everyone danced around the question that was on all of their minds until Moffitt finally worked up enough courage to ask. "You must excuse our curiosity, Frau Romanoski," he began, tentatively, unsure how to broach the subject, "but you and Herr Hauptmann are obviously close to each other. How-?"

"How do we know each other?" Irena finished his thought for him. Taking another sip of coffee, she smiled to herself. She had been expecting this question. "It was a very long time ago," she began. "Six years to be exact. Hitler had invaded Poland and had taken Danzig in the process. There were many here who believed the Nazi propaganda, and the Danzig Germans were glad to be part of the Greater Germany."

Irena hesitated, the memories that she thought had been buried long ago suddenly resurrected themselves, and the horror was just as real today as it had been in 1939. "There were many of us, mostly Poles and Jews, who weren't as happy. I had lived here most of my adult life, and I never saw anything like it - and I pray to God that I never see it again."

She took a deep breath and continued, staring directly into the faces at the table. "They hung them - the resistance leaders - in the middle of town, so everyone could see how powerful they were. There was so much cruelty and violence." Irena sighed, but continued. "After the initial uprisings our lives settled down a bit. The resistance became less noticeable, less outspoken. They held meetings in private homes, or in churches, anyplace where they would not be found out. The first wave of soldiers eventually moved on and in their place, the Wehrmacht sent a new administration to organize the military efforts in Danzig. It was Hauptmann Dietrich's first assignment, and he was not happy."

_Danzig, 1939_

_Chaos seemed to spring from nowhere as a battalion of foot soldiers delivered box after box of files into Dietrich's new office. He disgustedly looked around at the cluttered office and grimaced at the volume of work that needed to be done before he could even attempt organizing the men and machinery that ran the Third Reich. A desk job was definitely **not** what he had planned on when he received his orders to report to Danzig, but it was a soldier's duty to serve, not ask questions and so he was prepared to do the best job he could._

_Amidst the turmoil, rather unexpectedly, an older woman appeared in front of his desk. "Who are you?" Hauptmann Hans Dietrich asked tersely as he looked up from the disheveled pile of papers._

_"Frau Irena Romanoski," the woman answered, nervously fingering the handle of the purse she held in front of her. "I'm here about the housekeeper's position."_

_Dietrich searched his memory. He did not remember asking for a housekeeper and assumed it was one more thing Major Reinhardt had failed to mention before he left him holding a leaky bag of disorganized military installations and half-finished, poorly planned projects._

_There was a chair in front of Dietrich's desk and he removed the carton of files that occupied the seat. "Please, sit down," he instructed the woman as he stacked the box on the ever growing tower of cardboard containers. "I apologize for my rudeness, but I've seen so many new faces lately-"_

_"It does not matter," Irena assured him. It truly did not matter to her; she had been treated far worse by the prior régime. Besides, she enjoyed putting the Germans on the defensive. "About the position. . .?"_

_Sitting again behind his desk, Hauptmann Dietrich wearily rubbed his face. He supposed he owed it to the woman to hear her application, but this was not a decision to be made lightly. The resistance movement in the area was small but resourceful and he could not afford to hire someone he neither knew nor trusted._

_"I suppose you have had some experience as a housekeeper," he asked, not really caring if she had or not._

_Irena abruptly rose from her chair. "If you are not interested," she said sharply, "then I will not waste your time or mine."_

_Dietrich was somewhat startled by the woman's veracity; he did not think he had been so transparent. "I am sorry," he apologized again. "Perhaps we should start over. I am Hauptmann Hans Dietrich," he said, extending his hand._

_Taken aback at first, Irena eventually capitulated and shook the captain's hand. Perhaps this one would be different from the others. . . ._

"At first, we avoided each other as much as possible," Irena smiled. This was one of the few memories that did not cause her any pain. "I would cook his meals, clean what I could, and do his laundry. He worked long hours, organizing his staff and sifting through volumes of paperwork. Herr Hauptmann was young and full of enthusiasm; I was old and weary of war and death. If we communicated it was only to exchange pleasantries and discuss my duties for the day. Until one morning when I found him asleep at his desk."

_"Herr Hauptmann." Irena hesitantly reached out to jostle the captain, then quickly pulled her hand back. The only response was a groggy groan emanating from where his head was buried in his arms folded on the desk._

_"Herr Hauptmann," she again tried to wake him. "It's five o'clock in the morning."_

_Five o'clock! Dietrich immediately sat up, looking uncertainly around the room. It was still dark outside and Frau Romanoski was already there to do her chores. His whole body felt as though he had been run over by a Panzer and he yawned as he massaged the kink in his neck. Shaking the sleep from his mind, Dietrich looked distastefully at the mass of paperwork that still remained to be done. In the middle of the clutter a picture of his wife stared up at him from where he had left it before he fell asleep._

_Embarassed that Frau Romanoski had witnessed such a personal display of sentimentality, the captain quickly set the silver-framed photo aside. Rising unsteadily from his seat, he nervously cleared his throat. With his hands behind his back, he assumed his offical demeanor and was about to give his housekeeper her instructions for the day when he was interrupted._

_"Is this your girlfriend?" Irena asked as she studied the picture she had picked up from his desk. The face in the picture was simple, yet stunning at the same time. The warmth in her eyes was meant only for Herr Hauptmann._

_"She is my wife," Dietrich answered evenly as he brusquely took the photo from her and replaced it on the desk. _

_Undisturbed Irena commented, "She is very beautiful. I can see she loves you very much." She thought for a moment. It was the first time she had ever considered the German to be anything more than just another officer of the Nazi machine. "You must be very lonely," she added sympathetically._

_Hauptmann Dietrich turned on his heel. It was not appropriate to be discussing his private life with his housekeeper, let alone his own emotional state. But the genuine smile on the woman's face stopped him from voicing his disapproval. He softened and looked away. "At times," he admitted, unsure how to deal with the new twist in his relationship with Frau Romanoski._

_Irena, too, had her own misgivings about developing a personal relationship with the German. She was a Jew and even though the German army had been a little more tolerant of her kind, she knew the leniency would not last forever. Still, there was something about this one, an intelligence lacking in most of the officers she had met, a honesty and nobility she had rarely seen before. He dealt with his subordinates fairly and equitably and she knew, that if nothing else, Hauptmann Dietrich would be a loyal friend._

"I invited him to my home, more out of sympathy than anything else," Irena explained as she poured another cup of coffee for Sergeant Troy. "And no one was more surprised than I when he accepted."

"That must have been slightly awkward," Moffitt observed, watching Irena over the rim of his coffee cup.

Irena laughed. "Especially since my son was living with me at the time, and he was working with the Polish resistance. I didn't know it at the time, but Hauptmann Dietrich was well aware of my son's activities. The two of them disliked each other instantly."

"Sounds like Martin," Tully muttered as he reached for another cookie.

The other men murmured their agreement, and Irena guessed it was some sort of shared history she did not understand. "Herr Hauptmann and I became very close. He was always respectful of my position, and I came to count on his friendship as I did those I have known all my life. Everything went well until late December of that year. Hauptmann Dietrich had been the ranking officer at the base for almost three months. The military operations were running smoothly and Herr Hauptmann had finally become comfortable in his position. Then, one evening he asked me to stop in to see him before I left to go home."

_"Did you want something, Herr Hauptmann?" Irena asked as she peeked around the door that had been left ajar. _

_"Yes," was his only response._

_The serious expression on the captain's face was alarming, and Irena could feel her heart start to beat a little faster as she stepped into his office. "What is it?" she asked quietly._

_"Please, sit down." He indicated the chair in front of his desk._

_"No," Irena answered firmly. She would rather stand if this were bad news._

_Dietrich sighed heavily. He knew there was no use arguing and that it was best to just say what needed to be said. Irena would expect nothing but the truth._

_With his hands clasped behind him, he began to pace behind his desk. "I received a rather interesting dispatch yesterday."_

_Irena raised her eyebrows in anticipation. Herr Hauptmann had never discussed the details of his job with her before, and she did not feel now was a good time to start._

_Hans barely noticed her reaction as he continued pacing. "I am to be replaced," he said evenly._

_Irena visibly relaxed. "You're being transferred?"_

_"By the SS," Dietrich continued grimly, completely ignoring Irena's inquiry._

_He stopped pacing and looked at his friend. The tears in her eyes were the only indication that she had heard him. Irena offered no resistance as he gently guided her to the chair._

_Dietrich stood between his desk and Irena. He wanted to hold her, comfort her somehow, but he knew he was the last person she would want to console her. He suddenly - sickeningly - felt very German._

_"I know that you are a Jew." Dietrich had to keep talking, hoping he could find the right words to vindicate himself. "But you must know that **what** you are does not matter to me. You have to believe that I will never betray you or your family and friends to the SS." _

_Irena remained motionless, her eyes fixed, as if she were staring into a void. This could not be happening. _

_"As long as you remain discrete you will be safe, I promise you that." Dietrich could not tell if Irena was paying attention to anything he said, but he had to be sure she heard his next words. He grabbed the arms of the chair she was sitting in and crouched down in front of her._

_"Irena. . ." He rarely called her by her first name, but he had to be sure she was listening. "I know about David, too."_

_Irena's gaze made contact with the captain's. "What do you know about my son?"_

_"I know he works with the resistance movement. I've never done anything about it because they are basically ineffectual here in Danzig."_

_"After your kind killed most of them." She glared accusatorily at Dietrich._

_Attempting to keep his temper in check, Dietrich lowered his head, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He understood Irena's need to lash out at someone, and he knew he just happened to be in the line of fire. "Irena, you must talk to David. Convince him to stop what he is doing. If he doesn't, and he is captured by the SS, there will be nothing I can do to help him."_

The mood at the dinner table had grown somber. Irena nervously knotted and unknotted her napkin. "I tried to convince David to quit his collaboration with the resistance, but he was young and idealistic. . . . The SS had not been in charge two weeks before David was captured," she said, choking back the tears that always accompanied these memories. "I was frantic. Hauptmann Dietrich was due to be reassigned to his post in Berlin, and I had had little contact with him since the SS had arrived, but he was the only person I could turn to."

_The clock on his bedside table read 3:20 a.m. as he fumbled for the phone that refused to quit ringing. Dietrich mumbled something that sounded like his name, and listened for the response on the other end. Between the sobbing and the cries of desperation, he was able to make out Irena's name._

_Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he immediately sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Frau Romanoski," he spoke calmly into the receiver, "slowly, please. I can't understand what you're saying."_

_"My son. David," Irena breathlessly sobbed over the phone. "They have him. The SS. They have my son."_

_"Damn!" Dietrich cursed under his breath. He had expected this, only not quite so soon. "How long have they had him?"_

_"It happened around midnight. One of his friends just came to tell me."_

_"Has the SS contacted you?"_

_"No, not yet."_

_Dietrich inhaled, then slowly exhaled as he considered his next step. "If they have not contacted you, it means he has not been processed."_

_"What does that mean?" Irena asked impatiently._

_"That means we still have time." With the phone perched on his shoulder, Dietrich was already getting dressed. "Stay where you are," he ordered. "I will do what I can, but please promise me you won't leave your house."_

_Irena began to tremble. "Yes," she stammered, "I'll do whatever you say. But please, Herr Hauptmann, please help my son."_

_Dietrich closed his eyes and nodded his head. "I'll call you back in about an hour," he said and hung up. The next thing he had to do was find a phone number of a friend in Krakow._

_In his bare feet, tucking his shirt in his pants as he ran down the hall, Dietrich unlocked the door to what had once been his office. He had left most of his things packed in boxes in the corner of the room, and was relieved to see that Hauptsturmführer Fromm had not moved them. _

_Ripping open one carton, then another, he finally found his black leather address book. Under the "S's" he found the name he was looking for - Oskar Schindler._

_Sitting behind his old desk, Dietrich rang the operator and asked for Schindler's number in Krakow. Waiting as the various connections were made, Hans tried to think of a convincing argument to persuade Oskar to take on a Jewish malcontent to work in his factory. Finally, the phone rang once, twice, then three times. In the middle of the fourth ring someone picked up the receiver._

_"Ja?" Oskar Schindler answered groggily._

_"Oskar," Dietrich began, "it's Hans. Hans Dietrich." There was dead silence on the other end of the phone and he hoped Schindler was sober enough to remember him._

_"Hans Dietrich?" the man yawned loudly. _

_Growing ever more impatient, Dietrich rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Yes, Hans Dietrich. We met a few months ago in Berlin."_

_Schindler suddenly remembered the party given for some General at the Reichstag. "Ah, yes! Hauptmann Hans Dietrich. Certainly, I remember." He glanced at his bedside clock. "Do you know what time it is?"_

_Dietrich tried to remain calm. "Yes, I'm sorry about the early hour. I need a favor and it's something of an emergency."_

_Schindler was, Dietrich thought, amazingly receptive to his plan to transfer David Romanoski to work in Oskar's factory in Krakow. After they worked out the details for the transfer, Dietrich apologized again for the early morning call, thanked him and hung up. Now all that remained was to convince Hauptsturmführer Fromm._

_Dietrich finished dressing and checked on David, who was being held in an interrogation room that had been set up by the new administrator. Through a small window in the door, Hans could see that the boy was unharmed._

_Deciding it was best not to communicate with him, Dietrich thanked the guard and turned to leave. It would do neither of them any good if he expressed too much of an interest in the prisoner._

_Returning to his room, the captain picked up the phone and dialed Irena's number. He could hear the anxiety still present in her voice when she answered._

_"I checked on David," he said, not bothering with the pleasantries, "he's fine." Irena's sigh of relief was audible even over the bad connection. "I am going to try and have him transferred to a factory in Krakow." Dietrich hurried to finish before Irena could interrupt. "It will be hard work, but he'll be safe there. You have to trust me," he pleaded._

_"Yes, of course," Irena said. Krakow was so very far away, but at the moment, she had little choice but to give Hauptmann Dietrich her consent._

_"Nothing is settled yet," he warned to keep Irena from setting her expectations too high. "I must speak with Hauptsturmführer Fromm first. I will let you know of his decision."_

_Again Dietrich looked at the clock. 5:30 a.m. Reverie would be called soon and then he could talk to the SS officer. He hurriedly washed, shaved, and finished dressing. It was important to get to Fromm before anyone else did._

_Hans was sitting in what used to be his office when Fromm entered. Rising from his chair, he snapped a salute and received a "Heil Hitler" in response._

_"I heard you wanted to speak with me," Fromm stated rather officiously as he sat heavily behind the desk._

_"Yes, sir," Dietrich responded calmly. This had to sound like nothing more than a new idea that would ultimately benefit the Reich. "I understand that you captured a member of the Polish resistance last night."_

_Fromm studied a folder on his desk. "Yes, a David Romanoski." He looked suspiciously at Hauptmann Dietrich. "Of what interest is he to you?"_

_Dietrich cleared his throat. "I was wondering what sort of plans you had for him?"_

_Fromm could not control his laughter. "Plans? My dear captain, I have no plans for the bastard but to shoot him. But only after I get the names of his conspirators out of him."_

_"He won't talk."_

_"How do you know?"_

_"I've been here for some time. I know these people. Believe me, Hauptsturmführer Fromm, you'll be wasting your time."_

_Fromm peered at Deitrich over the rim of his wire glasses. "Then I will simply shoot him."_

_Dietrich hesitated. He had no doubt Fromm would kill David as readily as one might dispose of a pesky insect. "I have a better idea." He roughly sketched out his proposal for Fromm's approval, thoroughly cognizant that this would be David's only chance of survival. "Shooting him will only be the waste of a strong, healthy Jew who could better serve our efforts in Schindler's sweat shop."_

_Fromm considered the captain's plan. The proposal did have its merits, and he was sure it would garner him recognition from his superiors. There was only one consideration. "Only if I can say this was my idea."_

_Dietrich blinked and exhaled slowly. He should have guessed it would all come down to a matter of politics. "Of course, Hauptsturmführer Fromm," he agreed, smiling disingenuously. "I am only interested in serving the Fürher."_

"I never heard from Hauptmann Dietrich after that, except for this note he had delivered to my house." Irena pulled open a draw and produced a small piece of notepaper. Dated 23 December 1939, it had obviously been folded and unfolded many times over the years.

In the captain's handwriting, the note read: "David is on his way to Krakow. He will be able to contact you from there. He must never know that this was my doing. I will be leaving tomorrow to spend the holidays with Ilsa. I don't know what my next assignment will be, but I will try to write when I can. I cannot possibly thank you for all you have done for me. Affectionately, Hans Dietrich."

Troy sat back in his chair as the four men exchanged glances of amazement. The story they had just heard was fantastic. Yet, despite their astonishment, Troy would not have expected anything less of the captain. He was right after all. Duty and honor might have driven the man, but it was his conscience that served as his moral compass.

Ilsa carried in the last armful of kindling and dropped it in the tinderbox next to the fireplace in the living room. The weather had turned unseasonably warm for the first week of December, and even though a certain dampness hung in the air, she and the Muellers had had little need for the warmth of a fire recently. She unbuttoned her tweed jacket and draped it over the back of the desk chair in the corner of the room. As she inspected the thin gloves she had tossed on the corner desk she made a promise to herself to mend the hole in one of the fingers.

Ilsa walked slowly to the foyer and listened at the foot of the stairs. It was late and the lack of noisy activity from the nursery told her that the children were asleep. She sat tiredly on the bottom step. Sleep had come with difficulty the past few nights. Whether she felt something was wrong, or whether she simply missed her husband, she could not tell. She only knew that she wanted him back, safe at home.

Sighing heavily, Ilsa was about to pull off her boots when a sudden knock at the door startled her. She quickly looked up. A shadow hovered at the door, the angles of the beveled glass window distorting the figure.

She waited for her heart to stop pounding before she rose to see who was there. Clara appeared at the top landing. Bending at the waist to get a better view of the entranceway, she cautiously watched the figure at the door.

"I'll get it," Ilsa called out over her shoulder. "It's probably another beggar," she said not unkindly as she unfastened the lock and turned the doorknob. "I really don't know what else-" Opening the door,

Ilsa stopped in mid sentence. She gasped, covered her mouth with both hands and took a step back from the entranceway. Uncomfortably staring back at her was Martin Mueller.

"Who is it?" Clara asked, cautiously walking down a few steps when she realized something was wrong.

Almost apologetically, Martin nodded once at Frau Dietrich, then pushed the door open a little wider. Wordlessly, he stepped inside the house and looked into his mother's eyes.

Slowly sinking to the step, Clara grasped at the banister. She closed her eyes tightly, unwilling to open them again for fear that Martin would be gone when she did.

"Mother."

Clara heard his voice but it did not seem real. She had heard him call to her many times in her dreams and she was not sure that this was any different.

"Mother, it's me, Martin." Clara's son tentatively walked up the first few steps of the staircase, but paused when she still would not look at him. Then his worst fear was realized - perhaps she did not want to see him. "Mother," he pleaded passionately for her attention, "please, look at me."

Clara could no longer bear the uncertainty. When she slowly opened her eyes and Martin did not disappear, she felt as if a dark veil had been lifted from her heart. Her face brightened with each passing second, and by the time Martin reached her, Clara was dizzy with ecstasy.

Ilsa quietly watched as Martin fell into his mother's arms, the two of them sobbing with happiness and relief. Having gotten over the shock of Martin's arrival, she looked again at the open door, expecting that her husband would also appear there.

Standing in the open doorway, she peered into the dark night. "Hans?" she called out quietly at first, then a little louder, when she did not receive a response. "Hans?"

She flew out the front door to the porch. Perhaps he was waiting outside, not wishing to intrude on Martin's homecoming. She stood and listened. Nothing but silence answered her. He wasn't there.

Closing the door behind her, she ran up the stairs to where Martin and Clara were sitting on the steps. "Where is he?" she asked, caring little if she had interrupted the reunion. "Where is Hans?"

Martin looked at Frau Dietrich, then looked away, certain that she did not want to hear the only answer he had. Releasing his mother's hand, he gently laid it in her lap and stood up. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath; his lower lip began to tremble. She deserved to know the truth, but he could not bear to look at her.

"They told me-" He choked on the memory. "They told me he was dead."

Ilsa stared at Martin. "No," she whispered, barely shaking her head in disbelief.

"I'm sorry," Martin sincerely replied, "I truly am."

Ilsa pulled her hand away from Martin when he reached out to her. She didn't want his sympathy, she wanted an explanation. "Who told you this?" she demanded, shaking with indescribable rage, tinged with sorrow.

"Sergeant Troy," Martin answered, trying to understand Frau Dietrich's strange reaction.

"Did you see his body?" When Martin did not answer immediately, Ilsa angrily pressed him for a reply. "Did you see his body?"

"No."

"Where is Sergeant Troy?"

"I- I don't know," Martin replied uncertainly.

"Ilsa, please!" Clara could feel her friend's anguish, but she could also see Martin's fatigue.

Ilsa glanced at Clara, then at Martin. "Don't you see?" she asked impatiently. "Martin did not see my husband's body. No one knows where Sergeant Troy and his men are. As long as they remain accounted for, there is still a chance that Hans is alive." She was sure of it - she had to be; the alternative was unthinkable. "Please, Martin. I know you must be exhausted, but it is so important that you tell me what happened. I have to know before I go to Allied headquarters tomorrow."

188


	21. Chapter 21

_**Chapter 21**_

Examining her reflection in the bureau mirror, Ilsa adjusted the small green hat on the back of her head. She sighed in resignation. The hat had faded with age, matching her equally faded green suit. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slipped on one shoe, then the other, looking up when she noticed Gretchen peeking through the half-opened door.

"Are you going to church, mama?" Gretchen asked innocently.

Ilsa smiled sadly. Sundays were the only days Gretchen ever saw her mother dressed up. "No." She opened her arms, inviting her daughter into her bedroom. "I have to go into Berlin," she explained as Gretchen climbed into her lap.

"I don't like Berlin," the child pouted as she played with the strand of pearls at her mother's throat.

"I know," Ilsa said sadly. She shook her head, dismissing the memories of her life in the city before the bombs. "Perhaps one day you will."

"Why are you going there?"

Ilsa hesitated. She really did not know what she expected to accomplish at Allied Headquarters - she only knew she had to try. "I am going to find out when papa will come home," she answered at last.

Gretchen stopped fingering her mother's jewelry. "Where is papa?" she asked, her inquisitive eyes meeting Ilsa's.

"I don't know, darling," Ilsa replied honestly, wrapping her arms around her daughter. "But I am going to find out."

Taking a pillow from the couch, Ilsa put on her gloves and walked outside to the Mercedes still parked in the drive where the soldiers had left it Wednesday night. She placed the pillow on the driver's side of the front seat and situated herself on top of it. She didn't like driving and now she remembered why. The toe of her left foot barely reached far enough to engage the clutch. She scarcely had time to engage the transmission when her foot slipped, causing the car to shudder and the engine to fail.

Edging a little further down the seat, Ilsa tried again. This time she successfully coordinated the clutch and the gas and managed to get the car onto the main road. The fuel gauge registered "full" and she quietly thanked whichever soldier had been thoughtful enough to fill the tank before returning the car.

The drive to the city passed without further incident. Although her anxiety level increased with every kilometer, it wasn't until she arrived in Berlin that the horrific memories came flooding back. The streets were cleared of debris and shelters had been built for the homeless; except for the charred asphalt, there was no evidence of the burned out vehicles that had once littered the streets. But regardless of the relative order, nothing could camouflage the wreckage of the city that had once been her home. She was relieved that the route to Allied Headquarters did not have to pass the empty lot where her house had once stood.

Parking the car on a side street, Ilsa wiped an errant tear and steeled her nerves. This was no time to look like a teary-eyed woman. Checking herself once more in the rearview mirror, she took a deep breath and got out of the car. She walked determinedly to the front of the old bank building, then stopped in mid-stride. The building itself was imposing enough, but the sight of the soldiers in uniform, milling about on the steps, frightened her. Who would listen to her? she worried. She was only a woman - a German woman like thousands of other German women concerned about their loved ones. What made her think anyone would pay attention?

But she could not turn back. The Allies had carelessly used her husband and, in turn, had put her family in jeopardy. Someone in that enormous building owed her an explanation.

Ilsa bravely climbed each step one at a time, ignoring the stares of the people around her. The interior of the building was crowded, too, and her English was not good enough to understand the buzz of conversation or the signage pointing her in every direction. She saw what appeared to be an information desk and decided that would be the best place to start.

As Ilsa started toward the desk, someone lightly grabbed her elbow from behind.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

Ilsa quickly turned to face her potential adversary and stared directly into the face of Sergeant Jeffrey Roberts.

"Frau Dietrich?" He too recognized Ilsa from their short encounter a few nights ago. "What are you doing here?" Without waiting for an answer, he escorted her to a less crowded part of the room.

"Sorry," the sergeant apologized when Ilsa removed her arm from his hold. "We don't get very many pretty women in here. And when we do, it usually means trouble."

Ilsa understood the innuendo and blushed. "I am not here to cause-" What was the word he'd used? "Trouble."

Sergeant Roberts pushed his hat a little further back off of his forehead and smiled. "So what _are_ you doing here?" he asked again.

Ilsa took a moment to organize her thoughts. There was so much to say, and she didn't know where to start. "Do you remember when you brought the car to my house? I asked about the boy, Martin?"

The sergeant nodded.

"He was with my husband when they found the car. Last night, Martin came home. My husband did not."

This was definitely something more than a lost and found issue. Frau Dietrich would not have made the trip from Luckenwalde to report a missing husband to Allied HQ unless someone in the building would know of his whereabouts. "Who do you think might know where your husband is?"

Ilsa dug into her purse and produced the original telegram from Major Armstrong. She unfolded it and handed the note to the sergeant.

Roberts softly whistled when he saw the signature at the bottom. "Looks like your husband's gotten himself into some hot water." From the incomprehension written across Ilsa's face the sergeant knew she did not understand. "Looks like he's in trouble," he explained.

Despite her best efforts to present a strong front, Ilsa's bottom lip began to tremble. "Yes," she agreed with a simple nod of her head, "he is in trouble."

Roberts rubbed his chin and reread the note from Major Armstrong. He had no choice but to help this woman, even if it meant getting busted back down to private. "Come with me." He gently placed one arm around her shoulder. "We're going to see Major Armstrong."

Ilsa shook her head. "No, I don't want to bother you. If you can just tell me where his office is located-"

"It's no bother," Roberts reassured her. "Besides, all of these other monkeys will be jealous when they see me walking with you."

"Then they will think you are in 'trouble'?" Ilsa smiled sweetly, proud of her little play on words.

Roberts melted. "Whew!" he sighed humorously. "I think I am!"

Sergeant Roberts escorted Ilsa past the information desk and directly to Major Armstrong's door. "Let me see if he's in." The sergeant was about to knock on the heavy oak door when Ilsa's hand stopped him. "You have done enough," she said resolutely. "I will do this myself."

From the determined set of her jaw, Roberts knew better than to argue. Taking her small hand in his, he gave it a gentle squeeze. "Your husband's one lucky guy. Good luck, ma'am."

Ilsa thanked the young man and waited until he was halfway down the stairs before she knocked on the door. She thought her heart skipped a beat when she received permission to enter the major's office.

Steadying her hand, she turned the brass doorknob and entered the dimly lit office. Ilsa introduced herself when the major did not look up. "Major Armstrong, my name is Ilsa Dietrich."

Armstrong's head snapped up when he heard the name. He looked past the woman to see if anyone had accompanied her. "How-?" the officer stammered.

Ilsa pointedly ignored his question. "I am here to find my husband." She guessed her request was not in perfect English, but she knew it was close enough.

The major politely stood up. "Please, sit down, Frau Dietrich," he said, indicating one of the two red leather chairs in front of his desk.

Ilsa did as she was asked, but the feeling of helplessness had passed. Anger now fired her determination. "My husband - Hans - I want to know where he is."

The major walked around to the front of his desk and, arms folded, leaned against the heavy piece of furniture. "Your husband hasn't returned yet."

Ilsa blinked and then stared at the major. That much she already knew. "Yes, I know. But the prisoners he rescued have come back home."

Armstrong tried to suppress his surprise. "How do you know this?"

"Martin Mueller was with the prisoners, but they did not detain him because he is not a German soldier. He came to my house last night - without my husband."

The major sharply inhaled, obviously displeased that Ilsa was privy to such information. He walked back behind his desk and sat down. Looking at the young woman, he tried to gauge her emotional state. The last thing he needed was a hysterical female in his office, for he had no choice except to tell the truth.

"I don't know where your husband is," he said finally. "From all reports, it appears that he is dead."

Ilsa barely missed a beat, as if she had not heard what the major said. "Sergeant Troy and his men?" she calmly asked.

"I don't know where they are, either. However, if it helps, I know they are alive."

Satisfied that there had been no new developments, Ilsa sat forward in her chair. "Major Armstrong, you have told me nothing that I do not already know. Now let me tell you what I am sure of. If Sergeant Troy and his men are still alive, so is my husband. I don't claim to understand why, but I know they would not leave him if his life were in danger. You should know that, too." Ilsa stood up to leave. "I expect to know the instant they make contact with you," she cautioned the major, then turned to walk to the door.

"One moment," Armstrong called out before she could leave the room. "How can you be so certain that Captain Dietrich is still alive?"

Removing her hand from the doorknob, Ilsa turned to face the major. "He made me a promise that he would return to me," she confidently replied. "He has never broken his promise."

Dietrich pushed himself up into a seated position, then rested long enough to catch his breath. He coughed a little, but it wasn't the deep, hacking cough he had experienced for the past few days. The mustard plasters had apparently done their job, but they had irritated his skin in the process. He reached under the t-shirt to peel them off when someone's hand stopped him.

"I don't think that's a real good idea, Captain," Tully observed as he laid Dietrich's hand beside him on the mattress.

The captain was not easily dissuaded and Tully smiled at the German's obstinate nature. _He must be feeling better_, he thought.

"It burns," Dietrich grumbled.

"Yes, sir," Tully answered. "It's supposed to." Complaining was definitely a good sign. "Want some water?" he asked, pouring a fresh glass.

Dietrich reached for the water, then grimaced as his hand immediately started shaking from the weight. Holding the glass with both hands, Hans eventually brought it to his mouth and drank half of its contents before handing it back to the corporal. "Where is Frau Romanoski?"

"She's downstairs. Figured you'd be hungry." Tully set the water aside and put a fresh compress on the captain's forehead. "Said something about you liking beet soup."

Hans smiled. She had not forgotten.

Tully thoughtfully watched the captain for a minute. "She told us about what you did for her boy."

Dietrich turned his head a little too quickly in Tully's direction and the constant pounding became a searing pain. Grabbing his head with both hands, Hans held on tightly until the discomfort passed.

"You've got to take it slow, Captain," Tully warned. "You're still working on one helluva concussion."

Corporal Pettigrew's observation was the one thing Dietrich was acutely aware of. "What did she tell you?" he asked, wincing as the pounding began anew.

Tully shrugged. "Just how you two were friends and you got the kid transferred to somebody's factory in Krakow." Not to understate the significance of what the captain had accomplished, the corporal added, "You took a big chance."

"It was a long time ago," Hans responded quietly. He carefully lay back on the pillows.

"Yeah," Tully agreed as he inspected a new matchstick, then tucked it in the corner of his mouth, "but the kid's in medical school in Switzerland now. The way I look at it, you saved more than one life that day."

_Perhaps,_ Dietrich thought as he closed his eyes. _But there were many more I didn't save._

Irena appeared at the top of the stairs, tray in hand. "How is he?"

"Cranky," Tully answered as he took the tray from Frau Romanoski.

"That is good!" Irena smiled as she kneeled on the floor next to Hauptmann Dietrich. She felt the captain's forehead. "Still warm," she noted, then asked, "but you are breathing easier, yes?"

Dietrich nodded his head. "Yes, but the mustard plasters-"

"They burn." She had seen how pink his skin was underneath the dressings. "I brought cream to rub on your chest." She unscrewed the cap of the jar and put it in Dietrich's hand, not wishing to cause the man any embarassment. "I think you'll want to do this yourself."

Dietrich applied the salve over the areas that were causing him the most discomfort and handed the jar back to Irena. Before she could turn away, he caught her hand in his. "Irena-" He paused to collect his thoughts, to put words to the emotions that churned in his mind and in his heart. "I'm sorry," he said uneasily.

Tenderly stroking his face, Irena inclined her head. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"For everything," he answered simply, unable to put a name to the atrocities committed under the guise of patriotism, for the scarred landscape left behind from the deluge of war, for the years and the lives wasted as a result of the madness.

Irena understood. "You don't have to apologize to me, Herr Hauptmann. You did what you could."

Dietrich shook his head once. "I could have done more. I should have."

"It was war, Herr Hauptmann. We all did what we had to do to survive. Good people like you were caught in the middle."

"I was so sure of myself . . . of what I was fighting for."

"And now?"

"None of it makes sense," Dietrich murmured despondently. "It's as if I have been living a lie."

_And you are unable to forgive yourself, _Irena thought as she gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "It will take time," she said, knowing that the remorse would one day fade and he would allow himself to live with the memories. "Everything takes time."

Troy helped Hitch push the sideboard back under the newly repaired window. Still holding the hammer, Hitch smiled appreciatively at his handiwork as the new pane of glass glittered in the sunlight. "Looks pretty good, huh, Sarge?"

"It looks beautiful!" Irena beamed as she entered the dining room, an empty soup bowl on the tray she carried. "Where did you find the glass?" She set the tray on the table and gazed at the light streaming through the window.

"Tully found it on one of his scavenger hunts," Hitch explained, but it was only a half-truth. The other half was that the glass had once been part of a building that now lay in ruins a few miles from her house. In this case, he figured, the abridged version of the truth was enough.

"How's Dietrich?" Troy asked, glancing at the empty soup bowl.

Irena thought for a moment before she answered. From a physical standpoint, she was sure he would tolerate the drive back to Berlin. His emotional scars, however, would require a longer convalescence. She thought back to their earlier conversation; Hauptmann Dietrich would persevere; he had no other choice.

"I think he is finally ready to go home," she answered as if the impending journey had been postponed for too long already.

"Finish up down here," Troy instructed Hitch. "Tell Tully and Moffitt we're leaving in the morning. I'm going up to talk to Dietrich."

Nodding his understanding, Hitch gathered up his tools. His spirits were suddenly buoyed by the sunlight that illuminated the small room. If the warm weather was any indication, the drive home was going to be a piece of cake.

Troy gingerly took the last few steps to the attic two at a time. He quietly approached the captain, uncertain if he was asleep or not. "Captain?" he said cautiously. When the German's eyes fluttered open, Troy again called his name.

Dietrich turned his head in Troy's direction and deliberately blinked his eyes a few times. He sighed in exasperation when his vision did not clear, then simply stared at the sound of Troy's voice.

"It's Troy," the sergeant announced.

Dietrich held his left side and coughed. Having difficulty swallowing, he gratefully accepted the glass of water Troy held to his mouth. "Thank you, Sergeant." Lying back on the pillows, he again turned his head in Troy's direction. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Troy answered as he set the glass aside. "How would you feel about going home tomorrow?"

Once again Troy had taken Dietrich by surprise. He smiled as best he could. "I would feel. . ." He searched for the right word. "Relieved."

Troy smiled in return. "Good. Tomorrow morning, then?" He rose from his knees to tell the others.

Dietrich nodded. "Sergeant!" He reached out in an attempt to prevent Troy from leaving.

"Yeah?" The sergeant stopped and crouched down beside the captain.

Dietrich stared blindly ahead, fighting his growing sense of uneasiness. The words formed on his lips, but he had difficulty verbalizing them. "I owe you an apology, also," he stammered slightly, unsure what to say next.

"An apology?" Troy was clearly nonplussed. "What for?"

"I underestimated you-"

Troy's brow furrowed in trepidation. It wasn't like Dietrich to be so candid. "It wouldn't be the first time, Captain," he joked, uncomfortable with Dietrich's sudden sincerity.

Hans shook his head and immediately regretted doing so. Holding his hand to his forehead to stave off the pain, he ignored the sergeant's comment. No amount of humor would make what he had to say any easier. "Please, let me finish." He took a shuddering breath, then paused, finally speaking. "I never thought for one moment that you would come back for me. I was sure I was going to die there. Yet you risked your own life to save mine . . . I don't know how to thank you."

Rubbing his eyes, Troy bowed his head, uncertain how to react to this rarely seen side of the captain's personality. There had never been any doubt - a choice never existed in his mind. Leaving Dietrich behind was never an option. Troy looked at the haggard face of the man who had unwittingly played such a paradoxical role in his life.

"You would've done the same for me, Captain," he said evenly.

Dietrich supposed he should have expected that answer. They were two of a kind, each holding fast to their own code of honor, their own brand of morality. After some consideration, Dietrich decided Troy was right. Given the same set of circumstances, if their roles had been reversed, he would have acted as Troy had. Still, he owed Sam Troy his gratitude.

"If there's anything I can do to repay you. . ." Dietrich offered.

It was Troy's turn to be candid. "I'd appreciate it if you would call me your friend," he stated sincerely.

Troy's request caught Dietrich unaware. There was no denying that their lives had crossed at the most peculiar times. He had considered their relationship a necessary evil in the past, but their association was now a meaningful part of Dietrich's existence.

"I'd be honored." The captain willingly extended his hand.

Troy gladly shook Dietrich's hand. Perhaps putting the past behind them would allow them to tackle the future. "Get some rest, Captain," he suggested, smiling. "We're going home."

Dressed in one of David's old shirts and corduroy pants, Dietrich sat in the armchair, sweating from exertion. Leaning on Sergeant Troy for support, he walked the few steps across the attic floor, depleting what little strength he had in reserve. He had never felt so weak in his entire life, and he despised feeling so helpless. Dietrich cursed his diminished sight and his aching leg; he was only too aware of the pounding in his head.

"Sergeant Troy and his men have finished loading the cars." Irena's hand lighted atop Dietrich's hand resting on the arm of the chair.

The captain only nodded in response. He was entirely too miserable to be happy that he was finally going home.

"You don't have to leave, if you think the trip will be too much for you." She suspected nothing short of a natural disaster would stop him from going, but a part of Irena wanted her friend to stay.

Dietrich's agitation faded with Irena's touch. "I want to go home," he said, acutely aware of a sense of optimism that had been missing in the past. He paused and nervously cleared his throat. "You have done so much for me. . ." The captain's voice broke as he gently squeezed Irena's hand.

"It was no more than you have done for me," she assured him. Looking over her shoulder, she noticed Sergeant Troy in the doorway. "I think your friends are ready." She reached out and stroked his face. "I have missed you." The emotion behind the sentiment made her tremble.

Dietrich reached for her hand. Gently holding her fingers, he clumsily found the top of her hand, then lightly kissed it. "I shall be back," he pledged. "I promise."

Troy, Moffitt, Tully, and Hitch each bade Irena farewell and each received a gracious kiss on the cheek.

"It's been a long three days," Troy said, alluding to the captain's precarious health, "but we'll take care of him from here."

Irena smiled and nodded. "I know you will," she whispered.

"Captain?" Troy placed his hand on Dietrich's shoulder, indicating that he and his men were ready.

With help from Troy and Hitch, Dietrich stiffly rose from the chair. He found he could put a little weight on his bandaged leg and with his arms around the mens' shoulders, he gingerly limped to the open door. Even without his sight, he could tell it was still dark outside. The air was cold and damp, clinging to him like dew that lingered on new grass in the spring. For the first time in over a week he became homesick.

"Shall we, Sergeant?" Dietrich asked more eagerly than he had anticipated.

Troy flashed a discerning smile. "Yes, sir," he answered enthusiastically, and together the three men gradually descended the steps.

When Dietrich was safely settled into the back seat of Troy's car the sergeant closed the door and looked at his comrades. Arching his eyebrows, he quietly ordered his men to "Shake it."

"Want me to drive for a while?" Troy asked Hitch. They had been on the road for almost two hours and he thought Mark might need a break.

"Not a chance, Sarge," Hitch answered brightly. "_I_ want to be driving this thing when we cross back over the German border."

Troy dubiously stared at the corporal. "How come?"

"Because I want to see the look on the guard's face when you try to explain what happened," Hitch grinned smugly.

"And what makes you think we'll get the same guard as before?"

"Doesn't matter," Hitch shrugged, "because nobody's going to believe your story."

Troy threw Hitch a furtive look. He was probably right, but he was also enjoying the anticipation a little too much for Troy's comfort. "We'll fall off that bridge when we come to it," he snapped more harshly than he had intended.

The car hit a rough spot in the road, jostling the passengers just enough to elicit a sharp moan from Dietrich, when his wounded leg abruptly bounced on the seat.

Hitch apologetically glanced in the rear view mirror, "Sorry, Captain," he muttered. He glanced in the mirror again, then turned to Troy. "He doesn't look too good, Sarge."

Troy turned around in the front seat. Where it wasn't black and blue, the captain's face had turned an ashen white. Dietrich was shivering again, the blanket Irena had provided was pulled up tight around his neck. Small beads of perspiration had formed on his forehead.

"Damn," Troy swore under his breath. "He must be running a fever again."

"Maybe we should've waited another day," Hitch wondered.

"Well, it's too late now." Distressed, Troy took another look at their passenger. "We'll get him some water at the border. I'll contact Berlin and let them know we're on the way. He'll have to hold out until we can get to a hospital."

Thirty minutes later, true to Hitch's prediction, the two-car convoy was stopped at the German border. The young guard shouldered his rifle and peered inside the car. The two men in the front seat appeared to be okay. The one in the back looked like death warmed over, and when he began to cough, the American sentry became suspicious.

"Papers?" he asked, politely, figuring some sort of I.D. would be the best place to start.

Troy thought for a moment. The fraudulent papers from HQ weren't going to help them now and they had been ordered not to carry any form of ID that would distinguish them as Allied soldiers.

Leaning across Hitch, Troy spoke to the American soldier. "Look, Corporal-" He read the young man's name tag. "Harrison, we're an Allied unit attached to headquarters in Berlin. The two men in the car behind us are with us. We've just returned from a special mission, and this man needs medical attention. I need to contact HQ to let them know we're on our way home."

Troy was sure he had not made a believer of the corporal when he took a step back and aimed his rifle at their car.

"Yeah, and while you're at it, why don't you call the White House and let them know you'll be late for dinner." Harrison made a motion with his gun and ordered the men out of the car. "Sergeant Russell!" he called out over his shoulder, keeping his gun trained on Troy and Hitch as they raised their hands and lined up against the left bumper.

Sergeant Russell appeared almost immediately from within the small shelter. "What the hell?" He removed the cigar from his mouth, mildly astonished by the scene before him. Warily looking at the two men standing in front of Harrison's gun, he glanced in the back seat of the car. "What is going on, Corporal?" he asked, not bothering to engage his rifle.

"They say they're from HQ in Berlin," the corporal reported, "but they have no identification. The one in the car looks pretty bad."

Russell nodded, stamping out the remainders of his cigar in the gravel. "You two got a name?" he asked gruffly.

"I'm Sergeant Sam Troy-"

"Might I ask what the holdup is, Sergeant?" Moffitt briskly walked towards the four soldiers gathered by the car.

"Who are you?" Russell asked, looking up at Moffitt, who stood a good three or four inches taller than he was.

"Sergeant Jack Moffit, British Scot Grays," the Englishman answered, proudly drawing himself a little taller.

Sergeant Russell was distinctly not impressed. "Are you all together?" he asked evenly, peering at Tully who affably waved to him from the black sedan behind them.

Moffitt nodded. "Yes, and we need to get back to Berlin - today!" he said rather impatiently.

Russell again looked up at Moffitt. "Uh-huh," he answered noncommittally, "and who's that?" he asked, indicating the captain.

"Hans Dietrich," Troy answered. "He's sick and he needs a doctor."

"And he's German," the sergeant added, "or was that just a minor detail that you were going to tell me later?"

Troy began to chafe at the sergeant's wariness. "Look, if you'll let me use the phone, I can get this all straightened out."

Everyone looked in the direction of the backseat when Dietrich began to shake with racking coughs that had not been present for the past twenty-four hours. Sergeant Russell became concerned. Whoever it was definitely needed medical help. He looked at Troy. "Come with me," he ordered, jerking his head in the direction of the small kiosk.

Ignoring the corporal and his gun, Moffitt opened the back door of the sedan. Kneeling on the floor of the car, he gently tucked the blanket underneath Dietrich and listened for a moment. The captain's breathing was regular and he did not appear to be in distress. Moffitt smiled to himself.

"Thanks, Captain," he whispered as he adjusted the pillow under Dietrich's head.

Dietrich shrugged his eyebrows and cleared his throat. "Glad to be of help," he replied. A sly smile formed on his lips, then disappeared.

A few minutes later, Troy and Sergeant Russell appeared at the door of the small cabin. "Corporal!" Russell barked at the young soldier. "Get that man some water and whatever else they need. Then get on the horn and make sure these men have a clear route back to Berlin!"

"Hitch!" Troy called as he walked back to the car. "You and Tully get some gas in these cars. We're leaving."

Corporal Harrison barely had time to react before Hitch smiled, then gingerly moved the nose of his rifle out of the way. Shaking his head in wonder, he jogged back to Tully waiting in the other car.

"What was that all about?" Tully asked, bewildered.

"Just the sarge working his magic!" Hitch answered. "C'mon," he said opening Tully's door, "they've just rolled out the red carpet for us!"

Back on the road, with Dietrich asleep in the back seat, Hitch turned to Troy. "Just what happened back there, Sarge? One minute nobody will listen to us and the next minute they're kissing our asses."

Troy smiled smugly. Without looking at Hitch he answered, "Guess the old man wants us back," he casually answered. "I could hear him yelling at the sergeant all the way from Berlin!"

Having finished the breakfast dishes, Ilsa slowly inched open the window over the kitchen sink. Wedging the dowel inside the track, she inhaled the fresh air and fleetingly wondered if the mild weather was a sign that God had taken pity on her country. Crossing the kitchen, she almost tripped over one of Gretchen's toys in the hall and was about to open the living room windows when the phone rang.

"_Hallo?_" she answered uncertainly.

"Frau Dietrich?"

"Yes?" The man's voice on the other end was definitely not German.

"It's Major Armstrong, Allied HQ."

Ilsa's hand began to shake. She searched out the small chair beside the phone table, and lowered herself into the seat. This was the phone call she had been waiting for, and now she wasn't sure she wanted to take it. Tightly closing her eyes, she bit her bottom lip.

"Yes," she said again, her voice a hoarse whisper.

"I just got a call from one of the border checkpoints. . ."

_Oh, God,_ she thought, resting her head in her hand. Her eyes welled with tears.

"Sergeant Troy and his men are on their way back to Berlin. Captain Dietrich is with them-"

Ilsa did not hear the rest of what Major Armstrong said. Deliberately laying the receiver in her lap, she covered her face with both hands and began to cry. All the pent up emotions from the previous week washed over her and spilled into her hands. All of the worry, the anger, and suspicion - all of the uncertainty, distress, and anxiety flooded her senses. But she did not shed tears of sadness. They were, instead, tears of relief.

196


	22. Chapter 22

_**Chapter 22**_

"Frau Dietrich?" The captain's wife had not responded to anything Major Armstrong had said, and he wondered if the phone lines were still connected.

Ilsa wiped away the tears, stuffed the handkerchief into the pocket of her apron and picked up the receiver. "I'm sorry," she stammered, "I did not hear what you said."

Armstrong could tell from the nasal quality of her voice that she had been crying. "I don't want you to worry," he repeated, "but they did request that a medical team meet them at the hospital. Apparently your husband's been injured."

Ilsa's pulse started to race. "He is alive, yes?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Closing her eyes, Ilsa nodded once to herself. Hans was alive; that was all she needed to know for the time being. "Where will they take him?"

"There's a US Army hospital unit set up inside the Zinnowwald Hospital. Do you know where it is?"

_An American medical treatment center_, she thought, _at least he will receive the best care there_.

"Yes, near Zehlendorf." She stifled a sob, and asked, "When will they be there?"

Armstrong looked at his watch. "An hour, an hour-and-a-half, probably. I can send a car if you'd like."

Ilsa shook her head. "No, thank you." She had had quite enough of American generosity. "I'll drive myself." She expressed her thanks and replaced the receiver in its cradle. Ilsa sat alone in the living room, momentarily numb from the unexpected news. When the numbness wore off, she became both excited and frightened. Hans was coming home, but she had no idea what to expect. She briefly thought she would call Major Armstrong for more details, but then decided she did not want to know. Whatever had happened to him, she would deal with it as she had everything else over the past three years.

Ilsa rose from the chair and untied her apron. Although everything inside her demanded some rash act on her part, she calmly walked into the kitchen. "Clara," she called out as she folded her apron over the dowel on the back of the kitchen door.

Clara answered her summons from the pantry where she had been busy scrubbing shelves. Pushing her hair out of her face with the back of her arm, she appeared in the doorway and looked expectantly at Ilsa. She could see that her friend had been crying.

Drying her hands on her apron, she cautiously approached Ilsa. "What is it?" she asked anxiously, "what's happened?"

Ilsa tried to smile. "Hans is coming home," she answered, the tremble in her voice the only sign of her emotional upheaval. "I have to go to Berlin."

"He's not coming here?"

"No," Ilsa answered evenly, "they're taking him to Zinnowwald."

"The hospital?" Clara asked, puzzled. When Ilsa nodded, she immediately called for Martin. "Wash your face and change clothes," she told her son when he appeared at the cellar door. "You'll have to drive Frau Dietrich to Berlin."

"No!" Ilsa immediately objected. "I can drive myself."

"Let Martin take you. You shouldn't go by yourself."

Martin looked questioningly at both women and asked what had happened. When his mother related as much as she could deduce, he insisted on accompanying Ilsa.

"He is my friend," the boy pleaded, "please, if you won't let me do this for you, let me do it for him."

Ilsa looked at Clara, then at Martin. Perhaps they were right. This was not a good time to tackle the old Mercedes. "Yes, certainly," she capitulated. "Let me find something else to wear." She was about to go upstairs when she remembered Gretchen. "Clara, will you watch the children?" she asked out of politeness. "Tell Gretchen I've gone into town and that I'll be back soon. Please don't say anything about her father."

Clara nodded her consent. "Of course," she agreed, warmly embracing Ilsa. "May God go with you," she murmured as Ilsa hastily made her way to her room.

Dietrich lay awake in the back of the car, listening to the rumble of the tires as they met the paved road. It was amazing, he thought, what one could hear if he listened well enough. He could even count the number of telephone poles they'd passed simply by listening for the _whooshing_ sound the air made as the car went by. They were somewhere in the country, north of Berlin, he was sure of it. The air from Troy's window was clean and fresh, untouched by the fire and decay of the surrounding cities.

"Where are we?" he asked no one in particular.

Hitch looked at him in the rearview mirror. "About an hour outside Berlin, near Eberswalde, I think."

Dietrich nodded. The scent in the air would soon be changing. As he nestled down into the seat, he hoped he would sleep for the rest of the trip.

The captain awoke with a start when he felt the blanket underneath him move.

"You're okay, Captain."

It was a male voice Dietrich did not recognize and he began to panic. His hands moved wildly over anything he could grab onto in the car. Someone counted to three in English and he could feel his entire body being lifted out of the car. When he tried to sit up, a strong set of arms forced him to lie back on a hard, cold metallic surface. He grimaced in agony when his left leg fell off the gurney.

"Captain!" This time it was Troy's voice. "It's okay. We're in Berlin. You're safe."

More unfamiliar voices floated above and around him and he felt the table underneath him begin to move. Taking a few shallow breaths, he began to cough.

"Where am I?" he asked fearfully, unable to tell if Troy was moving with him.

"Zinnowwald," someone pronounced the German name with an American accent.

The gurney took a sudden turn, then abruptly stopped. Someone was undressing him and he could hear the sound of structured efficiency as the people around him performed their duties. Sudden warmth radiated over his body, exactly the way the sun would warm him in the desert. Dietrich jerked his head away from prying fingers which proded his eyelids.

"Sergeant Troy!" he cried in desperation.

"Please try to hold still, Captain."

Whoever was so interested in his eyes tried again. And again Dietrich pulled away.

"Let's get him a sedative," the frustrated voice said.

The captain tried to draw his arm away from the cold alcohol swab, but someone stronger than he clamped down on his arm and held it tightly on the table. The sting of the injection lasted only a moment. As the medicine warmly flowed down the length of his arm, Dietrich could feel himself slipping away.

"Please," he mumbled, barely able to control his speech, "tell my wife. . ." Finally, unable to fight the drug any longer, Hans fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

Following Ilsa's directions, Martin pulled up along the street opposite the old hospital. Queues of homeless and sick men, women, and children lined the steps to the building, waiting for treatment, food, and water. Desperate hands reached out to her as she and Martin made their way through the front door and Ilsa suddenly felt very out of place in her faded green suit.

Ilsa's heart broke as she looked around at the chaos in the entrance hall. Patient beds were pushed up against the walls, leaving very little space for the doctors and nurses to maneuver in the halls. Orphaned children either listlessly roamed the halls, or merely sat in dark, dirty corners, crying for their mothers. Overwhelmed by the distinctive odor of death, Ilsa thought she was hallucinating when she heard someone call her name.

Martin tapped her on her shoulder, and as Ilsa turned she caught sight of Sergeant Roberts waving at her from across the crowded hall. She stared at him, dumbfounded, as he drew near. Whether she reacted to the sight of a friendly face, or whether she simply needed someone to hold her, Ilsa ardently threw her arms around his neck and held on tightly, crying on the sergeant's shoulder.

"Yeah, I know," he murmured in her ear, "it's pretty awful."

Grateful that someone understood, Ilsa collected herself and pulled away from the sergeant. "What are you doing here?" she asked, wiping away a stray tear.

Roberts shrugged. "Major Armstrong asked for a volunteer. When I heard it was to help someone find their husband, I put two and two together and got you!"

Ilsa tentatively smiled appreciatively. "You are so very kind."

"Eh," he shook his head. "Just doing my job."

"Where do we start?" Martin asked impatiently, feeling suddenly protective of Frau Dietrich.

Ilsa brought her hand to her forehead. "Ach! Where are my manners? Sergeant Jeffrey Roberts, this is Martin Mueller."

Roberts sized the kid up. "So you're the one everyone was concerned about?"

Surprised the man knew his name, Martin flushed, then stammered. "I suppose," he answered, the old indignation rising to the top. He changed the subject. "How do we go about finding Captain Dietrich?"

Sergeant Roberts took Ilsa by her arm and moved to a quieter place in the hall. "From what I understand, Sergeant Troy is supposed to deliver your husband here, correct?"

Ilsa nodded. "But I don't know what time they will arrive."

Roberts looked at his watch. "They were at the German border four hours ago." He raised his eyebrows. "I'll bet they're here."

Roberts stopped a nurse in the hall, and in stilted German asked for directions to section of the hospital set aside for American soldiers.

"I didn't know you spoke German!" Ilsa exclaimed, again baffled by the mysterious American.

Roberts smiled deviously. "Well, now you know my secret," he laughed as they followed the route through the hospital that the nurse had given them. "I guess you'll have to marry me."

Ilsa blushed. "But I am already married," she said, going along with the joke.

Roberts grin grew wider. His harmless flirtation had done the trick. For a moment, Frau Dietrich was distracted enough to smile.

The American section of the hospital was much smaller, but decidedly less crowded and cleaner. White beds covered in white linen were lined along both sides of the large ward, curtained screens separating the patients who required privacy. Nurses in green fatigues moved between beds, delivering medication to the wounded and sick. A few men lay with thermometers in their mouths, while others read or slept.

Roberts stopped at the little desk in the front of the room, staffed by a nurse in a starched white uniform. "Good afternoon," he said pleasantly. "I'm here at Major Armstrong's request. We are looking for a German soldier - Captain Hans Dietrich."

Without looking at her roster, the nurse replied firmly, "No German citizens in this ward. You need to check-"

"No, you don't understand," Roberts interrupted. "He's a special case."

The head nurse pursed her lips and reluctantly picked up her clipboard from the desk. With nothing to do but wait, Ilsa casually scanned the room as Sergeant Roberts continued to argue with their nemesis. Without making eye contact with anyone, she simply stared at the shapeless white vista, dotted here and there with specks of army green and khaki. Her eyes finally came to rest on the farthest corner of the room where a particularly heavy concentration of white and green mingled.

Focusing on the aberrant scene, Ilsa realized that a series of white screens had formed something of a cubicle. One side of the cubicle was slightly ajar and there were men in white coats animatedly speaking with two men who were not in uniform. Nurses moved in and out of the improvised room and Ilsa took a step forward to investigate the peculiar gathering.

One of the non-uniformed men looked up, peering past the open screen. He shook his head and continued his conversation with the doctor. Ilsa's eyes opened wide in astonishment and her hand flew to cover her open mouth. It was Sergeant Troy. She was sure of it. Without a word to Sergeant Roberts or Martin, she slowly walked towards the end of the room. The world around her seemed to disappear and the hum of activity faded away. By the time she was halfway through the ward, she was running.

Roberts turned suddenly when Martin started to go after Frau Dietrich. Glancing at the group of people in the back of the room, he understood the woman's urgency. He reached out just in time to grab the boy by the collar.

"Let her go," he instructed Martin. "Looks like we found our man."

The look of warning in the sergeant's eye prevented Martin from arguing.

Ilsa pushed past the crowd of white coats and green uniforms. She was almost inside the screens when someone gripped her arm and turned her around.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but you can't go in there."

Ilsa began to struggle fiercely. "Leave me be," she cried, unconcerned about rules, regulations, or protocol that would prevent her from seeing her husband.

Troy looked up at the commotion, mildly bothered by the distraction until he realized who was there. Immediately he went to Frau Dietrich's aid.

He stepped between the white coat and the captain's wife. With his back to Ilsa, he could almost feel her shake with anger and determination. "Let her go," he firmly instructed the orderly.

"But-"

"She's his wife," Troy said, almost as angry as Ilsa. "Let her go!"

Ilsa twisted her arm out of the man's hand with more force than was necessary, her eyes flaring with indignation. Without hesitating, she turned on her heel - he was there, on the opposite side of the white-screened room, peacefully sleeping, alive and safe from harm. Ilsa stood motionless. Her eyes traced his body as he lay on his back underneath the white sheets and blankets. His face was pale and gaunt; a bandage at the corner of his right eye concealed some of the bruising on the side of his face. The rest of the discoloration was already turning an ugly mixture of yellow, green, and black.

The contents of a glass bottle suspended from a tall pole dripped into a tube connected to his left arm, bandaged to a stiff board at his side. His chest rose and fell in short, shallow breaths, and she thought she detected an occasional slight wheeze as he labored to breathe.

Ilsa's mind contested every action her heart wanted her to take. She wanted to touch him, to hold him, to kiss his lips and tell him how much she loved him. She wanted to take his hand in hers and never let go. But common sense overruled her emotions. Hans was ill, he needed to rest; her heart would have to wait.

Instead, she silently approached his bedside. She noticed how cold his hand was as she laced her fingers with his. She paused for a moment to gently brush his hair off of his forehead, then she tenderly touched his lips with a kiss.

Someone offered Ilsa a chair and she sat down without letting go of Hans' hand. "What is wrong with him?" she asked quietly as she continued to gaze at her husband.

The doctor, who had been standing with Troy, stepped forward. "I'm Doctor James Walker." He held out his hand as a greeting, but Frau Dietrich was either ignoring him, or had not heard his introduction. "Most of his superficial wounds, and the broken rib, are healing just fine," he began earnestly, "but there is some fluid in his lungs and the bullet wound in his leg is mildly infected."

Ilsa inclined her worried face towards the physician as he stood next to her. "No one told me," she said, her voice breaking.

The young doctor looked on her sympathetically. "We're giving him penicillin to fight off the pneumonia and infection, and I don't see why he can't make a full recovery from either injury." He paused when the captain's wife closed her eyes to collect herself, then regretfully continued, "But there is another, more serious problem."

"What is it?" Ilsa asked uncertainly, no longer bothering to hide her tears.

"We think he might have suffered two or three rather damaging blows to his head. There is some fluid build-up behind his eyes." He waited to be sure Frau Dietrich understood. "It's been my experience that these will eventually go away, but for the time being. . . " The doctor paused again. "He's unable to see."

"Oh, my God," Ilsa whispered under her breath as she watched her husband sleeping. How could this have happened? "You said 'for the time being,'" she stammered, wishing her comprehension of English was better. "What does that mean?" she asked, expectantly looking at the doctor.

The young man raised his wire-framed glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "These blood clots are putting pressure on the nerves in the part of his brain that control his vision. His body will try to make those clots go away. If and when that happens, he will probably regain his sight, as long as no permanent damage has been done. But we won't know anything for a while."

"How long will this take?"

Doctor Walker shrugged frankly, wishing he had an answer for her. "It could take a few days; it could take a few weeks. I really don't know."

Ilsa's expression saddened. There was nothing left to do but wait.

"He has two things going for him," Walker said, trying to sound encouraging. "He's young and relatively healthy. And as long as he's here, we'll do everything we can for him."

The captain's wife nodded her understanding.

"We've given him a sedative and medication for pain. He'll probably sleep for some time."

"I'd like to remain here," Ilsa replied, resolved to stay until Hans awoke.

The doctor wasn't going to argue. He was sure that allowing Frau Dietrich to stay with her husband would benefit them both.

Sergeant Roberts periodically checked to be sure Frau Dietrich was doing well. There was little he could do for her. She seemed to draw the strength she needed from her husband, and he was beginning to feel like a fifth wheel.

"May I call you?" he asked as he stood at Ilsa's side, preparing to leave, "just to ease my own mind?"

Ilsa smiled gratefully at her new friend and reached up to touch his face. "I would be disappointed if you did not," she answered sweetly, then asked, "How can I thank you?"

Roberts winked at her and smiled back. "Just take care of yourself. That's enough thanks for me." Bending over, he placed a friendly kiss on her cheek. Before leaving, he turned back to face her. "Um?" He bent backwards a little to look past the screen that acted as a portal to Dietrich's room. "What about Martin?"

_Martin!_ Ilsa had completely forgot about him. Rising from her chair, she let go of Hans' hand for the first time that afternoon.

"Please, have him come in."

Standing at the head of her husband's bed, Ilsa smiled affectionately as Martin hesitated, standing just inside the perimeter of the partitions. "He is alive, Martin." She softly stroked Dietrich's matted hair. "Just as I said."

Ilsa remained at Hans' bedside long after the medical staff had finished their ministrations. She waited in vain for some sign that he knew she was there, some response to her touch that would indicate he could feel her presence. Eventually she became aware of someone standing next to her. She looked to her left to find Sergeant Troy also standing vigil.

"What happened to him?" Ilsa asked plaintively, almost begging to understand.

Troy pulled up another chair next to her and sat down. "It's a long story," Troy began, fumbling uneasily with the hat in his hands as he rested his elbows on his knees.

The look he received in reply told him that Frau Dietrich was willing to listen. Sitting back in the chair, Troy related as much as he knew, including the rescue and the few days spent at Frau Romanoski's home.

"Martin can fill you in on what happened inside the camp. As for the rest, only the captain can tell us."

Ilsa merged the new information with what Martin had already told her. Her face softened as she realized the role Troy had played in her husband's fate.

"You saved his life," she concluded, her eyes wide with wonder, "and you brought him home to me."

Troy bit his lower lip and nodded his head in reluctant agreement. "He's worth it," he said finally. "You both are."

For the first time in hours Ilsa relaxed as she stared at the near-empty bottle on the IV pole. "It's odd, isn't it Sergeant," she sighed, "the path that God sets for us, and the many twists and turns we take until we understand the journey."

"Yes, ma'am," Troy agreed, glancing at Dietrich, then at the captain's wife. "It's very odd, indeed."

Ilsa could see the exhaustion in the set of Troy's shoulders. This mission had taken its toll on the sergeant as well. "You need your rest." She took Troy's hand in her own. "I will tell Hans you were here," she assured him.

Troy nodded gratefully. After the past few nights on Frau Romanoski's attic floor it wasn't going to take much debate to convince him to get some sleep. He agreed to leave, then remembered Dietrich's wedding band in his pocket. Holding Ilsa's wrist, he gently deposited the ring in her outstretched hand.

"I think he might want this back," he said quietly.

Ilsa stared at the gold band for a moment. Tenderly enfolding the ring in her hand, she looked up at Troy. "Thank you," she whispered gratefully. "I cannot tell you what this means to me."

Uncomfortable with such an intimate exchange, Troy glanced at the floor, then lifted his head to look at Ilsa. "Believe it or not, Frau Dietrich, I think I know."

Nighttime fell quickly and it had begun to rain. Ilsa imagined all of the people in front of the hospital who were probably still standing on line in the rain. A pang of guilt touched her heart when she looked at Hans - dry, safe, and warm in the arms of the U.S. Army, but the guilt passed as quickly as it had come when she reminded herself of what had brought him there.

Yawning, she blinked her tired eyes and looked at her watch. It was almost 8:00 p.m. and she began to wonder how she would explain all of this to Gretchen. She did not have much time to ponder the question when she suddenly felt Hans' fingers tighten around hers.

"Hans?" she said, hoping he could hear her.

Dietrich heard his name. It sounded distorted, as if someone were calling him from a great distance, resonating in his mind.

"Hans?"

He heard it again. This time is sounded much clearer; he could tell it was a woman calling to him, but it wasn't Irena. It was a younger voice, soft and tender, urging him into consciousness. Then a soft hand lovingly enfolded his. There was no mistaking her touch - it was Ilsa.

Dietrich forced himself to work through the drug-induced fog that clouded his thinking processes. He fought to regain control of speech and motion. Movement was the first function to submit to his control as he gently squeezed her hand.

Ilsa was overjoyed when she felt his hand close on hers. "Hans," she said excitedly, "it's Ilsa. You're home."

Dietrich thought he nodded his understanding. He tried to speak her name, but his voice would not cooperate with his lips.

She saw her name form on his pale lips. Not certain that he could hear her, she brought his hand to her face. "Yes, darling," she nodded her head, "it's me."

A contented smile played on his lips as he blindly groped for her hand. Slowly and deliberately, he brought her hand to his lips, kissed her open palm and gently held her hand across his heart.

"Ilsa," he finally breathed her name.

"I'm here," she assured him.

"I can't see you." He choked on the words as his reached for her face.

Ilsa caught his hand in hers. "You will, darling. The doctors think you will make a full recovery. Just give it time."

A whole platoon of nurses and orderlies paraded in and out of the cubicle of partitions once Ilsa informed them that Hans was awake. One staff member after another poked or prodded him for a whole series of blood tests, temperature checks, and blood pressure readings. Another team of nurses cleaned the leg wound and changed the bandage as others listened to his heart and chest and monitored his pulse. Lastly, someone hung another bottle of fluid, checked the needle in Hans' left arm, and then went about his rounds. Finally, Ilsa and Hans were alone again.

"Are you well?" Reaching for his hand, Ilsa smoothed his hair back from his face and gently kissed his forehead. He was hot again and beginning to sweat.

"Tired," he answered, trying to keep his eyes open.

Ilsa laid her hand alongside his bruised face. "Was it worth it, Hans?" She shook her head despairingly. "Have you done your penance? Have you redeemed yourself?"

Hans considered his answer. So many factors had contributed to his decision to go to Lithuania. He had done it for himself, for the POWs, for Germany. He had gone because he needed to feel useful again, he needed a purpose, and he needed to contribute to something that was good and right. But in the end, he had only one answer.

"I had to know," he said, his voice straining with emotion.

"Know what?"

With some difficulty, Hans took a deep breath. "That I wasn't like them."

"Like whom?"

"The others."

Ilsa straightened. She stared in disbelief at the face she had loved since they had first met ten years ago. He meant the Nazis. Hitler, Göring, Goebbels and Dönitz - the men who had betrayed him, the cowards who had manipulated the country, the murderers who had twisted the truth until it was no longer recognizable. He had been afraid that by failing in his duty, he too had become a coward; he too had betrayed his men and his country. The idea was inconceivable.

"You did not fail, Hans," she said between angry tears. "You are a good soldier and a good man . . . and sometimes those two lives are not compatible. Sometimes one has to win out over the other, but that doesn't mean you've lost the battle. It means that you are still able to recognize that there is a battle to be won."

Emotionally spent, Ilsa sat heavily in the chair next to his bed. She rested her head in her hand. How many other men were doomed to live out their lives with the same self-doubt, the same self-loathing? How incredible it was, she thought, that even from the grave, Hitler and his wretched followers still had the potential to destroy Germany.

She understood. Without one word from him, his wife understood. Hans felt as if salvation was within his grasp, as if her belief in him would allow him, in time, to forgive himself, even if he would never forget.

With his free hand, he searched the darkness for her touch. "I do love you," he said, his voice trembling from exhaustion, but his spirits had been lifted by the feeling that he, too, had finally been liberated.

Ilsa caught his hand and held it to her face. "I will always love you," she announced proudly, uncaring if the whole world knew of her affection.

Moments later, Dietrich's hand fell limp in Ilsa's. At peace with himself, Hans had fallen back to sleep.

The next morning brought much the same as the previous night. The names and faces had changed, but the new team of doctors and nurses performed the same functions as their predecessors. Dietrich's physical condition had changed very little within the last twelve or so hours since anyone last checked, but inside he felt his long-dormant optimism beginning to recover.

After an early morning bath, the five days growth of stubble were finally shaved and he was given a fresh hospital gown. He was served breakfast, but was refused a cigarette; another injection of penicillin and a pain pill later, he was fast asleep.

The sound of hushed voices arguing roused Dietrich as he drifted between alternating states of sleep and wakefulness. He could distinguish at last two male voices; the female voice belonged to Ilsa.

"No!" Ilsa firmly announced under her breath, "I will not allow it."

"We have the doctor's permission to speak with your husband," the older of the two U.S. Army officers insisted.

"You do not have mine," Ilsa stubbornly held her ground.

"Frau Dietrich," the other soldier interrupted, "your husband took part in a special project for the United States Army. We have every right to conduct a debriefing with him."

"My husband is in hospital because of the United States Army," Ilsa reminded them.

"Ilsa?" Everyone turned in Dietrich's direction as he called for his wife from the opposite side of the room.

After a brief conversation with her husband, murmured in German, Ilsa stepped aside and Dietrich turned his head in the direction of the voices.

"I would appreciate it if you would come back at another time," the captain stated, summarily dismissing the two soldiers and ending the debate.

The two lieutenants exchanged a look of frustration. "Sir," the older one began, "we have statements from-"

Hans winced as he pushed himself into a sitting position, his entire body stiffly complaining from the idleness of the past few days. "Gentlemen," he breathed heavily, followed by a succession of raspy coughs. "You will have my statement when I am better. Until that time . . . good day." The captain had sternly put an end to the interview.

Forfeiting the first round, the two men mumbled a half-hearted "Yes, sir." Snapping their briefcases closed, they sulked from the room.

Happy to be rid of the unwanted intruders, Ilsa tenderly kissed Hans on the lips and was genuinely surprised when he barely reacted. "How are you feeling?" she asked, concerned.

"Clean," he answered, still distracted by the unexpected visitors.

She nervously smiled at his odd answer. "Did you eat today?"

"Mmm-mmm," he hummed in the affirmative.

"What did you have?"

"I don't remember."

Hans was definitely not concentrating on any of her questions. Ilsa could see the familiar blank mask that covered his face when he became embroiled in his memories.

"Hans. . ." She drew closer to him. "What do those men want from you?" Their presence had upset him more than he was willing to admit and Ilsa was becoming suspicious.

Ilsa's question captured Dietrich's full attention. His first inclination was to tell her he did not know what they wanted, but realized she would easily recognize his answer as the lie that it was.

"They want to know about the POW camp." The reply was vague, but it was the truth.

"They have already asked Martin," Ilsa reported.

Dietrich scarcely shook his head. "They want what I know," he sighed. "They want to know what happened with the Russians."

"What can you tell them that they can't see for themselves?" Ilsa asked bitterly. It was perfectly obvious to her that her husband had been severely battered. She could not even bring herself to ask for the details, unless—

"Is there something they cannot see?" she inquired.

Major Brückner's execution replayed in his mind with vivid intensity, and Dietrich closed his eyes at the painful memory. He heard Ilsa ask what the matter was, but he refused to answer. He did not want to talk about it. Describing the act would only make the memory more real to him; the ugly brutality of the deed would only upset her more. Dietrich only wanted to forget.

205


	23. Chapter 23

_**Chapter 23**_

Ilsa could see she had guessed correctly. Hans was visibly shaken. Whatever ordeal he had experienced had left him wounded. His body was healing well enough, but she suspected it was his soul that had suffered the most damage.

"Hans," she began encouragingly, "whatever it is. . ." Her voice trailed off. What if she, too, were unable to handle the truth?

"Ilsa, please." His unvoiced plea begged her not to ask. Shaking his head, Hans took an unsteady breath. "I can't."

Ilsa nodded, relieved that neither one of them would have to face their fears. Perhaps in time he would be able to tell her, and she would be able to listen.

"The Muellers will be leaving soon," she said, changing the subject.

"And Martin?" Hans asked.

"He will be going with them, but he's not making the trip willingly."

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Dietrich's mouth. "I'm not surprised," he said, followed by a mixture of a chuckle and a cough. Hans sighed. "Where is his father?" he asked acerbically.

Ilsa smiled knowingly. She knew exactly where this was heading. "You don't have to worry," she said, sitting again beside the bed. "He's being held by the Allies. I suspect he's living like a king."

Dietrich could not hide his disgust. "As long as he's not living like a king in my house," he decreed.

Ilsa patted his hand. "I told you, you don't have to worry. Clara and Rosa have gone to visit him a few times. Martin has not, however."

"He probably won't, either." Hans shrugged his eyebrows. "Too bad."

His apparent indifference belied Hans' true concern. No matter how Martin felt about his father now, the man was still his father, and the boy could not avoid him for the rest of his life. But the teen would have to learn forgiveness before there could be a reconciliation.

Pondering Martin and Ernst Mueller's relationship made him think of his own child. "How is Gretchen?" he asked, his mood suddenly tender and caring.

Thoughts of her daughter brought a twinkle to Ilsa's eyes. "She is fine," she happily reported. "She knows you're safe and will soon come home, but I did not say that you were injured. And I do not want to bring her here."

"No," Dietrich agreed. He would not want his daughter to see him as he was. Gretchen had already experienced enough unsettling events in her short lifetime - there was no need to add to her unhappy memories. "Tell her I'll be home in time for Christmas." He gently squeezed Ilsa's hand as an assurance that he would be.

The couple talked for some time about family, home, the city, and the state of the country. Rosa had lost a tooth. Gretchen had found it. Johanna and her husband sent their love. Herr and Frau Moenich would try to get by to visit Hans sometime soon. It was going to be a dismal Christmas, but Ilsa had heard rumors that there would actually be a Christmas Fair this year. At least it would give some modicum of joy to a spiritless city. At least Germany had, so far, been spared a ravaging winter.

Hans listened with as much interest as he could muster, feeling again as an outsider performing in a theater production in which he had only a recurring role. The weakness he continued to experience,

combined with the pain medication made, it increasingly difficult to stay awake. Consciously blinking his eyes to stay awake, he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

Ilsa recognized the constant, exaggerated blinking as the first sign that she should leave. The second sign was a drawn-out yawn that he was only minimally successful in suppressing. "I should be going," she said almost apologetically.

"What time is it?" Hans murmured.

Ilsa looked at her watch and answered, "9:45."

"My God!" Hans' concern brought him suddenly awake. "You shouldn't be out alone at night." It was already late and she still had the long drive home. "It's not safe," he added for emphasis.

"You need not worry about me," she lovingly admonished him. "I have special connections."

"Truly?" Hans raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "You will tell me about them one day, I hope," he said, his speech beginning to slur.

"Perhaps," Ilsa replied coyly. Her smile faded as she watched her husband fighting the encroaching vacuum of sleep. Their banter seemed too natural, too comfortable in this terrible setting. She wondered, if she opened her eyes, would this horrible nightmare end?

"Ilsa?" Hans groggily called out when the room became strangely quiet.

His voice drew Ilsa from her contemplation. "I'm still here," she said quietly, choking a bit, resisting the imminent tears.

Barely holding onto consciousness, Hans still heard the stifled sob. "Are you well?" he asked, confused by her silence.

Ilsa nodded even though he could not see her. "Yes," she answered, collecting herself. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" Hans mumbled.

Ilsa paused, unable to reconcile her mind with her heart. How could she express the sorrow she felt when she saw him lying there, battered and bruised? Could she explain how sorry she was that she had ever given him that damn telegram? Ilsa dismally shook her head. Hans would not want her sympathy or her apology; it would only diminish what he had accomplished. Still, his act of bravery deserved something better than this. Taking his hand in hers, she touched the side of his face.

"This should never have happened to you," she whispered, at last laying bare her heart to her sleeping husband.

The days blended into an endless cycle of baths, meals, and medication. Hans could only tell what time of day it was by which meal he was being served. Ilsa's visits became less frequent as the petrol supply diminished, but she was able to occasionally use her "contacts" to obtain either a ride into the city or an extra fuel-rationing coupon. Little by little, Dietrich's sight returned, but the doctors would not allow him to leave until he had put on more weight - the caloric rationing at the hospital being significantly better than what he would receive at home.

Within a week or so, the pneumonia lessened and the broken ribs began to heal. He was allowed to sit in a chair with his leg propped up for gradually longer periods of time, until eventually he spent much of his time leafing through magazines in the large common room with the other recuperating soldiers. His vision still wasn't good enough to focus on the printed matter, and when he became bored with the same pictures of Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin he simply bathed in the warmth of the sun filtering through the large picture window.

"Hauptmann Dietrich?"

Startled, Dietrich looked around him for the voice that had called his name. Very few of the Allied soldiers spoke to him, and none of them spoke to him in German. Finally, he turned far enough in the chair to look back over his shoulder and found Martin Mueller standing in the doorway.

"May I come in?" Martin asked politely.

"Of course," Hans answered enthusiastically. He squinted as he followed Martin from the door to a position a few feet in front of him. The two men stared at each other for a moment, their shared

memories bridging the short distance between them, until they finally broke into huge smiles that brightened both of their faces.

Dietrich extended his hand to Martin, but the young man embraced him instead. Hans allowed Martin to release all of his pent up emotions, the boy softly weeping on the captain's shoulder. There was still so much of Martin that was an injured child.

"Find a chair," Dietrich finally suggested, "we can talk."

Martin pulled back and wiped his face on the sleeve of his coat. He looked at the captain through red, swollen eyes. "They told me you were dead," he sniffed.

"I know." He guessed it had been a ploy on Troy's part to get the boy to leave Lithuania.

"Then, I saw you here. . ."

"It must have been quite a shock."

Martin laughed a little and self-consciously played with the tattered hem of his jacket. "It was." A silence fell between them as Martin fumbled for the right words to express himself.

"Ilsa tells me you and your family will be leaving soon," Dietrich stated, attempting to make Martin comfortable.

"Yes," he nodded, then stammered, "tomorrow."

A pang of regret caused Dietrich to look away from Martin. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "I know it must be difficult with your father-"

"I hate him!" Martin's passion exploded. "I won't go," he sulked as a petulant child.

Dietrich resisted the temptation to lecture Martin on family values and forgiveness. He didn't need another father; he needed a friend.

"I used to think I could never forgive our leaders for what they had done to our country, or the Allies for destroying everything I had lived for," Hans began sadly. "But the war is over, Martin. I have to put those things behind me. It is time for healing, not anger and bitterness."

"So you are saying I should forget everything my father did? What he was?"

"No." Hans shook his head. "You will never forget. Neither will I. But all of the hate has to end or nothing will ever change." He watched Martin as he mulled over what he had said. "Do you understand?"

"I can never forgive him for what he did to mama, Rosa, and me," Martin argued, the pain evident in his eyes.

"I understand," Dietrich assured him, "but your father did what he thought was right. I suppose we all did. It is unfortunate that the definition of 'right' continually changed, and we allowed it to."

Nothing was as Martin had expected. All of his dreams had turned into some sort of bizarre fantasy where everything had been turned upside down. Instead of the victorious Germany the Fürher had promised, Germany lay in ruins, its people slaves to the fortunes of war. His father, the man he had idolized as his hero, was nothing more than a traitor, a small man with few scruples and even fewer morals. Even Martin was not what he had imagined himself to be. He was trustworthy, strong, and brave, not the disagreeable youth he had been a few weeks ago. And the person who had seen the potential in him was Hauptmann Dietrich - the allegiant soldier he had accused of disloyalty.

"I suppose that what you told me is true," Martin conceded.

Dietrich raised his eyebrows, requesting clarification.

"That we are all not what we seem," the teen answered, disappointed that the captain did not remember their first meeting.

Hans shrugged slightly. "Well, if I said it, then it must be true," he smiled, impressed that Martin had heard him at all.

"I have never known you to lie to me," Martin said earnestly. Taking a deep breath, he finally arrived at a decision he could live with. "I suppose I should make the effort to understand my father," he concluded, "even if I can never love him again."

Hans thought for a moment, as if he was listening to some inner voice. "A very wise women once told me that everything takes time, Martin," he said, repeating Irena's words. "Give it time."

The two sat and talked for some time. Martin related the story of the trip home aboard the U.S. cargo ship, the trepidation the soldiers experienced as the hours slowly passed aboard the ship, and the elation they all felt when they finally saw the coastline of their homeland. The liberated prisoners were first

taken to an Allied camp where they were allowed to shower and shave, and where they were given clean clothes. The injured and sick were given medical treatment and they were all well fed. Martin had been allowed to leave since he was not a soldier. The last time he saw Willie was when they had wished each other farewell before Martin started out for home on Sunday morning.

Martin could see that Herr Hauptmann was beginning to tire, and as it was beginning to grow dark outside, he rose to leave.

"I wanted to give this back to you," Martin said as he dug into his jacket pocket. Finally he produced the item he had been searching for and handed it to Dietrich.

Hans held the aging book in his hands. "Heinrich Heine." He smiled sadly as he ran his hand over the brittle spine. The book was an artifact from a long past era, a testament to a culture that had been all but eradicated. Reading his grandmother's inscription again, Dietrich wondered if he and the book had something in common. The captain gently closed the front cover.

"I want you to have this," he said, holding the book out to Martin.

The boy took a step backward. "I couldn't."

Dietrich understood the young man's uneasiness. The book did mean a lot to Hans, but that was exactly why he wanted Martin to have it. "Please," he implored, "perhaps your generation will understand it better than mine did."

Martin hesitated. The captain had endowed him with a great responsibility that went beyond caring for the book, but a part of him knew he was up to the challenge. "I will take good care of it." He enfolded the book and held it to his chest.

Dietrich smiled. He knew he had been right about Martin, even if it had taken some time to realize the boy's inherent promise. "Goodbye, Martin." He shook the young man's hand for what he suspected would be the last time. Martin had a rough path ahead of him, but he had seen him overcome worse odds.

"I will never forget you," Martin earnestly promised.

Hans nodded his head knowingly. Martin, too, would always be a cherished memory.

A fine rain covered Berlin in another shade of gray as a heartless wind reminded everyone it was still winter. The pockmarked streets were wet and slick from gasoline spills; blowing paper and cardboard the only activity on otherwise empty thoroughfares.

Dietrich's restlessness mirrored the erratic weather. One moment he would be relaxed and still, the next he was fighting with the pillows and bed linens that insisted on wrapping around him. Finding a comfortable position in which to lie became his greatest achievement of the day. He had just turned on his right side when he looked up to find Sam Troy surreptitiously watching him.

"You know," Troy started, "for someone who's been so sick, you sure do have a lot of spunk left in you."

Lifting his hips, Dietrich pulled the twisted blanket from beneath him. "I am no longer 'sick,'" he grunted, then managed to flip the cover over his exposed leg. "They will not allow me to leave until my appetite returns," he explained irritably.

_Yeah, you can live in denial if you want to, _Troy thought.

Lifting the towel spread over Dietrich's bedside tray, Troy's eyes narrowed. He wasn't sure what had congealed on the plate, but it looked like standard military fare to him. "That might take some time." He turned up his nose at the aroma of cold meat and vegetables, and replaced the towel. "Other than that, how have you been?" Troy asked, genuinely concerned.

"Fine." Without thinking the defenses came up and Dietrich immediately fell back into the old pattern of glib repartee he had become accustomed to when speaking with the sergeant. "Better," he corrected himself, still not used to the change in their relationship. "And you?" With all of the attention focused on him for the past two weeks, it was easy to forget that Troy and his men also had endured a great deal of adversity.

"Needed a few days to rest, recuperate. . ." Troy unbuttoned his coat and sat in the chair next to the bed.

"And analyze," Dietrich finished Troy's thought.

"Yeah. They still want to talk to you, you know."

Dietrich glanced at Troy, unable to contain his suspicion.

Troy stringently objected to the captain's scrutiny. "And no, _they _didn't send me," he answered before Dietrich could ask. "Why won't you talk to them?"

"I see no need," Hans answered tersely. "They can obtain the information they need from your men and the other prisoners."

"I can only tell them what I saw when I found you in the basement of that building," Troy insisted. Even as he felt the familiar wall of prideful silence rise between them, he continued, "Captain, we all know something else happened and you're the only one who can tell us."

Dietrich turned away from Troy. Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling. Time and drugs had dulled his conscious memory of that morning, but he relived the horror every night in his dreams. He wondered, if he gave voice to the nightmare, would he finally exorcise the incubus? He looked at Troy as the sergeant waited for an answer. If anyone would understand it would be Sergeant Troy. Perhaps the time had come to rid himself of the infection that had been festering in his soul. He looked again at the ceiling, then closed his eyes. Where would he begin?

"They shot him," he said, inhaling unevenly.

"Who?"

For some reason his hands were shaking. He folded his arms across his chest. "Major Brückner," he answered uneasily. Reliving the horror out loud was more stressful than he had imagined, but he had to finish. "He was the senior officer among the POWs. A genuinely fine man, and they shot him. Point blank - one bullet to the head. His skull shattered-" The captain was trembling fiercely, unable to continue.

Troy sat back in the chair, stunned. This explained many things - the blood and unidentifiable tissue they'd found on Dietrich's face and in his hair; the way he would cry out the major's name as he lay on Frau Romanoski's attic floor, hallucinating with fever. And it explained his reluctance to speak to the Army brass. The captain was trying to forget an incident that could have far-reaching implications.

"You have to tell them," Troy said at last.

"I can't," Hans answered, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

"It's murder, Captain-"

"What good will it do, Sargeant?" Dietrich interrupted. "The major is dead, and quite frankly, I doubt the relationship between the U.S. and Russia is such that your superiors would be willing to risk an investigation. The major is dead. Let him rest in peace."

"And what about you, Captain, don't you deserve a little peace?"

Troy understood Dietrich's reluctance. He certainly had no reason to believe anyone would listen to his story, or care about the fate of one Wehrmact soldier. A German officer's word wasn't worth much these days. Still, he believed there had to be some sort of justice to be found amidst the finger pointing, deception and lies.

"If you tell Armstrong what happened, at least there is a chance that Major Brückner's death will be avenged. If you don't, those bastards will get away with murder."

Dietrich sighed and rubbed his strained eyes. He was so tired. The war had ended months ago, but he was still fighting, still searching for retribution, still struggling to hold on to what little honor and pride he had left. He only wanted to know peace and quiet. But Troy was right. Major Brückner's memory deserved a better fate than some lie the Russians would invent to explain away his death. And Brückner's family needed to be told the truth - not so much about how he died, but _why _he had died.

Dietrich reached inside himself to garner some strength. He again looked at Troy. "Please, tell Major Armstrong that I wish to speak with him, Sergeant." Hans looked away as he considered the enormous task that lay before him.

"You're doing the right thing," Troy said in case the captain had any doubts.

Dietrich nodded. "Ask them to come tomorrow, please. I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible."

"Sure," Troy agreed as he stood to leave. "I'll come, too, if you'd like."

Dietrich studied Troy for a moment. The sergeant had been there for him at every turn recently. He was rather pleased that Troy had again offered to come to his aid. "I would be grateful," he said, genuinely appreciative of the man's friendship.

Troy smiled. This friendship thing just might work after all. "See you tomorrow, then," he said, leaving as quietly as he had come.

Major Armstrong, the two officers and Sergeant Troy gathered in the common room, waiting for Dietrich to arrive. The clouds had cleared out overnight, allowing the sun to shed some much-needed light on the city.

"Why does he want me here?" Armstrong asked, slightly annoyed at being at the beck-and-call of Hauptmann Dietrich.

"I don't know, sir," Troy answered honestly. "But he did ask specifically for you to be here."

Contemplatively pacing the room, Armstrong looked up when Dietrich appeared in the doorway. He was much thinner than the last time they had met, his sallow complexion evidence of his recent illness. But the determination in his eyes had not changed.

Walking on crutches had taken more effort than the captain had anticipated. His arms shook from supporting his weight, and sweat was beginning to bead on his upper lip. Still, he had walked into the meeting, resolved not to show any weakness in front of Armstrong or his associates. Hans nodded his greeting to Troy.

"Major Armstrong," he said, acknowledging the major's presence.

"Captain," Armstrong returned the half-hearted greeting. "I think you know Lieutenants Harris and Caplan."

"We've met," Dietrich muttered without looking at the two other men. He ignored the chair Major Armstrong offered him and took another one on the opposite side of the room.

Troy grinned as he and the others were forced to follow Dietrich's lead. Even at his most vulnerable, he would not submit to anyone else's directives. Strangely, he found himself rooting for the captain.

"Before we get started," Armstrong began when they were all seated, "I would just like to say that the United States government extends its thanks to-"

"I do not want your thanks." Dietrich's eyes narrowed angrily, betraying his calm façade. "As I said before, I did not do this for the Americans, or anyone else. I performed my duty to my country. That is all."

The major nervously cleared his throat. He glanced at Troy, then at Dietrich. "Captain," he started, dropping any pretense of civility, "you are, without a doubt, the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch I have ever met."

A smile tugged at the corner of Dietrich's mouth, and he coolly returned the major's stare. "I must be stubborn, Major," he said disdainfully, "it is the only way I know to survive." He watched the faces around him, daring anyone to refute his claim. "Now," he continued, "I would appreciate it if we could get this over with."

Lieutenants Harris and Caplan retrieved their notepads from their briefcases and waited for their cue from Major Armstrong. Lieutenant Harris handed Dietrich a carbon copy of typed notes summarizing the statements they'd received from the others.

"Now, then," Armstrong started, as Dietrich examined the papers in his hands, "as you can see, we have several accounts of what happened leading up to the point where you were taken from the barracks for interrogation. We'd like to know what happened after that."

As Hans perused the reports the names of all the soldiers he'd met in Lithuania jumped from the paper at him. Willie Rundstedt, Sergeant Max Shrier, Corporal Karl Schneider, Ernst Mueller . . . and the

list went on. One name stood out above the rest. Dietrich looked directly at Major Armstrong. His statement _would _make a difference.

Hans began quietly, "His name was Rudolph Brückner. . ."

Hours passed as Dietrich told and retold his story, but with each repetition, the telling became easier. By the time the inquisition was finished, and he had repeatedly responded to the same question with the same answers, he felt strangely relieved. He had reported everything he remembered from the time he and Major Brückner had been taken for interrogation, to the time of his planned execution, when he first heard Troy's voice and knew he had been saved. His disclosure had a cathartic effect, and he bathed in the buoyancy of his liberated conscience.

"You okay?" Troy asked after Armstrong and his aides left. He had expected the debriefing to be hard on the captain, and was slightly puzzled at the calmness that had replaced the anger.

Dietrich nodded. "I am fine." And this time he being completely honest with the sergeant. "You were right - this was the only way to honor the major's death." He silently stared at the evening sky as the sun hid behind a new wave of gray clouds. "Do you think anything will come of it?" he asked solemnly.

"I hope so, Captain," Troy answered with the only opinion he had. The war was over and in its place, the politicians were now fighting a war of diplomacy. And as far as Sam Troy was concerned, diplomacy was just an excuse to ignore the truth.

For the first time in weeks, Dietrich slept the entire night through. When he woke, Ilsa was standing over him. He reached up for his wife, drew her to him, and they kissed passionately. "That was nice!" Ilsa giggled girlishly when she pulled away.

She watched him with mounting suspicion. There was color in his face and his eyes absolutely sparkled with mischief.

"You must be feeling better," she said, her face inches away from his. She kissed him again, enjoying the sensation of his arms around her. "I think I'm feeling much better, too," she murmured in his ear. Hans laughed. For the first time in more months than she could remember, her husband was laughing. "What has happened to you?"

Hans shook his head, smiling. "Nothing," he answered, "I just miss you when you don't visit."

Ilsa sighed sweetly. "I'm sorry, darling, but with the petrol situation and finding someone to watch Gretchen-"

"Don't apologize," he ordered, then added seriously, "Don't ever apologize to me."

Ilsa lowered her head and pushed her hair back behind her ears. "No. . ." She shook her head. "I won't." It wasn't the first time he had told her that. The enormous respect he had for her was sometimes staggering. "Do you think you'll be going home soon?" she asked hopefully.

"I don't-"

One of the nurses poked her head around the screen. "Captain Dietrich?"

She entered with his breakfast tray, said good morning to Ilsa, and felt Dietrich's forehead. Without a word, she picked his arm up and checked his pulse. "Let's see, his face is flushed, but he's not feverish, and his pulse is racing." She covertly glanced at Ilsa and smiled, "Keep up the good work, honey!"

All three laughed in unison as Ilsa blushed an attractive shade of pink.

"Okay, Captain," the nurse ordered, "see what you can do with your breakfast. Once we get a little more weight on you, we'll send you home." Kindly patting Dietrich on the shoulder, the nurse winked at Ilsa and left.

Removing the towel, Ilsa fixed his coffee and handed it to him with a piece of bread. "You heard the nurse," she said firmly. "Eat!"

A few days passed, Dietrich's appetite returned and he was ambulating well enough to be a nuisance to the nurses as they went about their daily routines. Doctor Walker's visits became increasingly shorter and he promised to send Dietrich home if he remained free of fever for at least three days. Today would be the final test.

Hans impatiently pulled the thermometer from under his tongue and read the results himself. "Ninty-eight-point-six!" he announced triumphantly.

Nurse Simpson took the thermometer from him to see for herself. She carefully examined the temperature markings. "Congratulations, Captain," she said, beaming, "you're going home!"

"When may I leave?" Dietrich asked eagerly.

"I'll have to get in touch with Doctor Walker," the nurse informed him, "then we'll see what he says." She was as happy as her patient was. "For the time being, lie down and try to get some rest. I'll let you know when I hear something."

Hans was too excited to rest. He had been cooped up in his isolated cubicle for almost three weeks. Tired of the sterile white environment, he wanted to be home where he would be comfortable among his own things. He needed to hold his daughter, to hear her laugh, to read to her again. He longed for a daily routine of breakfast with his wife and chores around the house. He wanted to sleep again in his own bed with Ilsa beside him. In a few days it would be Christmas, and although there would be little celebration, at least he and his family would be together.

Doctor Walker finally wrote the discharge orders. The hospital notified Ilsa and made arrangements for the captain to be sent home the next day. Major Armstrong had offered to send a car, but Ilsa insisted that she and Gretchen be there to take him home.

Slightly frustrated, but with an end finally in sight, Dietrich sat alone that evening and looked out at the Christmas tree that had been erected in the square below the window.

"Bon voyage, Captain!"

Dietrich looked up and found himself suddenly surrounded by all four members of the Rat Patrol. "I can remember a time when this would have frightened me," he laughed.

"And now?" Hitch asked.

Dietrich looked at each man in turn. "Now, it feels right somehow." The answer rang with sincerity. "I'm delighted you have all come." Through their shared adversity the five men had formed a bond of trust and understanding.

"I am here to repay a debt," Moffitt interjected seriously, but the glint in his eye gave him away. From behind his back, he haughtily produced a bottle of champagne, holding it over his arm as a waiter would, for the captain's inspection. "1944," Moffitt grinned, "it was a good year."

Dietrich gave him a look. "For you perhaps," he smiled and laughed along with the others. He gratefully accepted the bottle. "What debt are you repaying?" he asked what he thought was a rhetorical question as he read the label on the bottle.

"You saved my life once, and that of Miss Arno," Moffitt replied, deadly serious. "Let's just say it's a promise I made to myself to repay you."

Dietrich looked at Moffitt in stunned silence. Wannsee, the typhus vaccine, Miss Arno . . . It all seemed so long ago and he was genuinely touched that Sergeant Moffitt remembered. "I don't know what to say," the captain confessed.

"How 'bout 'where's the corkscrew?'" Tully loudly offered his opinion from behind Sergeant Troy. Stepping forward, he handed his Swiss Army Knife to the captain. "I knew there had to be a reason that thing was on there," he grinned.

Troy produced five ceramic coffee cups. He tugged at the cork while Dietrich held tightly to the bottle. With a loud _pop_ the champagne flowed over the mouth of the bottle and splattered on the floor before Moffitt could position his mug to collect the spillage.

Dietrich diligently poured champagne into each cup, then set the bottle aside and offered a toast. "To life and all of its oddities," he said, raising his mug.

"To teamwork," Hitch chimed in.

"To German engineering," Tully added, winking at the bewildered expression on the captain's face.

"To honorable men," Moffitt said solemnly when the laughter died down.

Troy looked at each man in turn. There was no doubt that the five of them made an unusual team, but he wouldn't have it any other way. "To friendship," he said as the coffee cups clinked in unison.

Troy remained behind after the rest of his unit wished Dietrich good luck and took their leave. He sat with the captain, an empty cup in hand, and stared at the lighted tree.

"The little ones have never seen so many lights at night," Hans said wistfully as he watched the children huddle in amazement as they passed the Christmas tree. "I doubt my daughter remembers ever having a tree in the house."

For the first time, Troy regretted being on the side of the victors. "It was a long war, Captain," he observed, "so much death and destruction."

His hands clasped together, Dietrich steepled his index fingers and thoughtfully touched them to his lips. "Too much," he agreed, then sat back in his chair. "Things were so much easier in the desert, were they not, Sergeant? We knew who the enemy was, there were no questions about our duty or how to perform it." Dietrich sighed heavily. "Somehow it was clean and noble."

"North Africa is a long way from Berlin." Troy nodded to the world outside the window. "It's going to take a lot of work - on both sides - before things get back to normal."

Dietrich raised his eyebrows. Normal? At the moment, he would settle for anything that vaguely resembled the ordinary.

Troy thought he could read Dietrich's mind. "Look at it this way, Captain," he said, draining the last few drops of champagne, "you and I are sitting here sharing a drink. Maybe we just have to redefine 'normal.'"

Dietrich smiled crookedly. "Perhaps there is hope for humanity after all, Sergeant."

"There's always hope, sir."

Dietrich leaned forward to study the luminous tree. The weather had turned cold and the condensation on the windows blurred his view of the red, green, and blue lights. Hope was the one thing no one could take away from him or his country. Despite the ravaged cities, the rising death toll, and the omnipresent poverty, the German people would endure. He was sure of it.

"The human spirit is indomitable, isn't it, Sergeant?"

Hearing Moffitt's words coming from Dietrich gave Troy reason to pause. Had the captain heard Troy that morning in Irena's attic? He stared at Dietrich. His respect for the man was enormous, but his admiration was even greater. Dietrich embodied Germany's future - steadfast, courageous, tough, and determined. If Hauptmann Hans Dietrch would survive, so would his country.

"Yes, sir," Troy answered honestly, nodding, "it most certainly is."

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	24. Chapter 24

_**Epilogue**_

The sun was shining. It wasn't something Hans would normally celebrate, but after a winter of gray clouds and cold rain, the soft warmth of the April sun could not be taken for granted. Closing his eyes, he put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and stood transfixed, his face raised to the comforting sunshine.

A sudden gust of wind stirred the branches of the aged oak tree that occupied much of the Dietrich's front yard. Hans squinted past the sunlight as he observed the newly formed buds that dotted the bare branches. He smiled contentedly at the promise of new life and a fresh start that always accompanied the arrival of spring.

Gretchen giggled as she ran past her father, chasing some unidentified creature that kept eluding her grasp. She momentarily squirmed as Hans caught her by her waist and turned her around, then giggled some more when he crouched down to button her coat.

"Mama will be very upset when she sees your shoes." Hans finished the buttons and they both looked at Gretchen's muddy shoes.

"The grass is wet," the child answered simply. It was hardly her fault that it had rained the day before. Gretchen looked to her father for understanding, then astutely looked past him. "Papa!" she squealed in delight and pointed at the car making a turn into their driveway. "It's Sergeant Troy!"

Hans turned in time to see his daughter race across the lawn to greet the sergeant. He would have called out to stop her, but he suspected it would not have made a difference. The two had become close friends on Troy's frequent visits, and the sergeant never failed to bring her some sort of surprise. Now Gretchen had come to expect a gift each time Troy made an appearance.

Gretchen impatiently waited for the car to come to a stop. She scampered around the front of the car to the driver's side door to greet Sergeant Troy.

"Hiya, Sarge!" Gretchen proudly spoke the only two words of English she knew - the ones that Sergeant Troy had taught her.

"Hiya, kid," Troy grinned as he got out of the car. "_Wie geht's?_"

"_Danke, gut,_" Gretchen politely answered as she peered around Troy, searching for the present she knew was waiting for her.

Smiling, Troy held his hands behind his back and waited for Gretchen to close her eyes and hold out her hands. Their ritual had become so familiar that neither needed language to communicate.

Gretchen opened her eyes to a round, multi-colored package securely bound by a ribbon at the top. The gift was so large she had to hand it back to the sergeant so she could untie it. Her eyes grew wide when she peered inside to find an assortment of chocolate and candy.

"Papa!" Gretchen exclaimed as her father approached the car. "Look what Sergeant Troy brought for me!"

Hans looked inside the package and grimaced. He could only imagine the stomachache that would result from Troy's gift. "Take it inside and show mama," Hans instructed as he retied the top of the paper. "Did you remember to thank Sergeant Troy?" he asked before his daughter could get away.

Holding her precious package close to her chest, she curtsied respectfully. "_Danke_, Sergeant Troy," she said timidly.

Gently cupping her chin in his hand, Troy smiled, "_Bitte_, Gretchen."

Gretchen looked expectantly at her father, waiting to be dismissed. She was practically dancing with excitement.

His daughter's innocent enthusiasm was contagious. "Go!" Hans laughed.

Gretchen did not need to be told twice. Gaily skipping across the driveway, she bounded up the few steps to the porch. The doorknob momentarily impeded her progress, but with inherited determination, she gave it a good twist, pushed the door open and disappeared into the house.

"She's a beautiful little girl," Troy said as his gaze followed Gretchen into the house.

The sergeant's wistful expression took Dietrich by surprise. There was so much more to Sam Troy than he had ever expected. Arching his eyebrows, he shook his head in wonder as he recovered from his astonishment.

"Thank you, Sergeant," he replied, flattered by Troy's observation. Dietrich took a step back as Troy closed the car door. "But you needn't bring her something every time you come. You really have spoiled her."

Troy shrugged. "That's what little girls are for, Captain," he smiled earnestly. "To be honest, I think I enjoy it more than she does."

Dietrich nodded in understanding. He also knew that particular kind of enjoyment. "I had not expected you today." With his hands behind his back, Hans turned to walk back to the house. He stopped when he realized Troy had not fallen in beside him.

"Yeah, I know," Troy said, his mood suddenly dark and pensive.

Dietrich's brow creased in bewilderment. "What is it?" he asked, suspecting this visit was not a personal one.

Troy reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a sealed envelope. "I have something for you, too."

An air of trepidation hung between the two men as the sergeant handed Dietrich the letter.

Dietrich turned the envelope over in his hands several times before opening it. There was no return address - no indication of who had sent the letter with Sergeant Troy.

"Do you know what this is?" Hans asked. His stomach lurched as he considered what might be contained within the dispatch.

"Yes, sir," Troy nodded, "but I think it would be best if you read it yourself."

Warily eying the sergeant, Dietrich slid his finger along the sealed edge. The official seal of the United States Army was the first thing that caught his eye as he carefully unfolded the heavy sheet of stationary.

_Captain Dietrich,_

_This is to inform you that the military court, which was assembled to investigate your allegations against Colonel Sergie Miranov of the Russian Red Army, has concluded its inquiry. On April 10, 1946, a tribunal comprised of judiciary experts from the four major Allied nations found Colonel Miranov guilty of the murder of Major Rudolph Brückner. Colonel Miranov's sentencing will take place-_

Hans stopped reading and closed his eyes. It was over and to his amazement, justice had been served. "Does his family know?"

Troy nodded. "Finish reading the letter," he told the captain, sure he had not read far enough.

Hans looked at Troy. There was more.

_- Colonel Miranov's sentencing is scheduled to take place at a closed session on April 15, at 10:30 a.m. The Soviet government is expected to make a formal apology at that time._

_The court wishes to express its extreme gratitude for your cooperation in this matter. However, due to the delicate nature of the proceedings and the wide-ranging implications of this barbarous act, we feel it would be in the best interest of international relations to keep this case confidential. We are sure you will agree that confidentiality will benefit everyone involved, _

_including yourself and Major Brückner's family. In the meantime, we wish to assure you that the Allied military police will continue to investigate the repatriation of German soldiers from Soviet prisoner of war camps-_

Dietrich no longer cared who had sent the letter. He looked at Sergeant Troy. "Is this some type of threat?" he asked acerbically.

"I think it's more of a warning not to go public with this," Troy answered, equally disgusted.

"So everything will be swept under the rug." Resignation was evident on his face as Dietrich folded the document and returned it to its envelope. Tucking the letter in the breast pocket of his coat, Hans exhaled slowly as he looked up at the sky. The beautiful spring day had suddenly become muddied and indistinct. "Miranov will be sentenced, the Russian officials will make a formal apology and that is supposed to make everything right," he murmured.

"They have promised to look into the POW situation," Troy noted, attempting to find something positive in all the political intrigue.

Dietrich continued the scan the horizon, then looked at Troy. The sergeant had become his closest friend over the past few months. Not only did they share the same philosophy about waging war, but they also had come to develop a passion for peace. Hans felt that perhaps now was the time to follow his advice to Martin. All of the bitterness and hurt had to stop somewhere.

He smiled crookedly at Troy. "Perhaps they will," he answered with a single nod of his head, "perhaps they will."

"I'll be going home in a few weeks," Troy announced as Ilsa poured he and the captain another cup of coffee.

Ilsa and Hans exchanged a look of mutual regret. "At least you will be with your family again." It was Dietrich's turn to put a positive spin on an unpleasant subject.

"Yeah," Troy agreed. "But I'm going to miss yours," he added sincerely.

"We will miss you also." Ilsa returned the coffee pot to the stove. "Especially Gretchen."

All three laughed at Ilsa's observation, but the good humor did not last long.

"Please keep in touch, Sergeant," Dietrich asked quietly.

"I will," Troy firmly promised as he looked the captain in the eye. He finished the last few sips of coffee and was about to leave when he felt the pocket of his coat. "I almost forgot," he stammered, reaching into the pocket. "I want you to have this."

He pushed a small leather-bound case across the kitchen table.

Hans slowly lifted the hinged lid to reveal a purple, heart-shaped medal. Speechless, he sat back in his chair and considered his response. He had no doubt that it was Troy's medal, as precious to him as Dietrich's own decorations were to him.

"Sergeant," he began, unsure how to express himself, "I truly appreciate your gesture, but I can't accept this."

"You deserve _something_, Captain," Troy said, trying to explain his reasoning. "You'll never be compensated for what you did. Money, medals, recognition - nothing. It just doesn't seem fair."

"You don't understand." Hans looked kindly on his friend.

Troy inclined his head. "It's not because it's an American medal-?"

"No," Hans answered immediately, not wanting to insult the sergeant. "It's because I already _have_ everything I want. Do you remember the discussion we had in the hospital? You asked me if I did not deserve some peace." He waited for Troy to recall their conversation. "Well, you were right, Sergeant. I do deserve to be at peace with myself - and everyone else. And, now, thanks to you, I have that. I don't need _anything_ to legitimize what I- what _we_ accomplished." Dietrich looked uncertainly at Troy. "Can you understand?"

Troy smiled knowingly. No one could put a price on the convictions a man held in his heart. He reached across the table, and closing the lid, slid the small box back into his pocket. "Yeah," he replied, "I _do _understand, Captain."

After saying good-bye to Ilsa and Gretchen, Troy walked to the front door with Dietrich. They stepped out into the bright sunlight. For a few moments they wordlessly stood side-by-side. Finally, Troy turned to Dietrich. "I guess this is good-bye." Slowly he offered his hand, which Hans firmly shook.

"How about _Auf Wiedersehen_?" Dietrich suggested, then explained, "Until we meet again."

Troy nodded. "Yeah, _Auf Wiedersehen,_" he agreed. The sergeant was halfway to his car when he turned sharply around. "Captain?" he called.

Dietrich raised his head in anticipation of Troy's question.

Sam Troy hesitated. He contemplatively chewed on his lower lip, then asked, "Do you think we could call each other Sam and Hans?"

The captain could barely contain his laughter at such an odd question. After he composed himself, he met Troy's quizzical stare. Together they shook their heads and answered, "no" in unison.

Troy laughed out loud. "I didn't think so!" he said brightly. "_Auf Wiedersehen_, Captain!"

Snapping a crisp salute that Dietrich readily returned, the sergeant turned on his heel and climbed back into his car.

Hans waited on the doorstep until Troy's car disappeared around the bend in the road. As he stood alone, he took consolation in his sadness. The sergeant's departure marked an end to one epoch of his life, as well as the beginning of another.

As he surveyed the new life flourishing around him, Hans Dietrich smiled at nothing in particular. His own renewal had already begun. . . .

From _In a Foreign Land_ in _New Poems_ (1844)

by Heinrich Heine

I once had a beautiful fatherland.

The oak tree

Was so tall; the violets nodded gently.

It was a dream.

I was kissed and spoken to in german

(One hardly believes

How good it sounded): "I love you!"

It was a dream.

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